


Algorithms of the Night

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, Lies, M/M, Murder, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Rituals, Therapy, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes undercover at a psychiatric hospital for a new case. For John and Sherlock it's the start of an unforeseen, emotional adventure that has far-reaching consequences for their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calling Card

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Algorithmen der Nacht](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4139193) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> SwissMiss translated this story from German into English.  
> Thank you, SwissMiss!  
> You really do such an amazing work for all of us!

John lifted his head and looked up from his blog, surprised by Sherlock's unexpected question. They had been sitting peacefully in the living room on Baker Street, each occupied at his own laptop, when Sherlock asked into the stillness of the evening, "Will you be seeing James Sholto again?"

His voice was audibly tense and he didn't look up, didn't even look at John. He just kept tapping away at his keyboard as if nothing had happened.

John was a bit thrown at first. Not because he couldn't answer the question, or didn't want to, but rather because Sholto was still on Sherlock's mind. The topic had hovered between them for three years now, ever since his wedding to Mary, and even now, after so much time had passed, the question of what place Major James Sholto had in John's life was still relevant to Sherlock. He'd tried to bring up the topic several times but they'd never really talked about it. Something else had always intervened, or else Sherlock had dropped it. Or John had evaded the question.

"He was my friend and commanding officer in Afghanistan. You know that, Sherlock," John said calmly.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied uncertainly. He kept typing, his fingers nervous and unsteady. Muscles played in his face.

John knew Sherlock wanted to know more, so he waited for the next question. _Do you still see him?_ Sherlock had asked three years ago. Whether they had any kind of regular contact. And John recalled saying no and expressing the hope that they would keep in contact after the wedding. An unsatisfactory answer for Sherlock. John hadn't realised it until later.

"He's still a friend, isn't he?" Sherlock pressed, his eyes fixed firmly on his screen and his fingers still moving.

John thought for a moment. He didn't want to offend Sherlock, knew how sensitive he was about things like this. But he also didn't want to lie.

"Yeah, I like him," John said honestly. "He's a fascinating bloke. We've been through a lot together, gone through some difficult times. We relied on each other. You can't just sweep that under the rug."

"An emotional connection," Sherlock probed.

"Friendship always has an emotional aspect."

"Was he your best friend?"

"There was a time back in Afghanistan when he was what you might call my best friend," John admitted cautiously, "but all that's been over and done with for a long time now. A new life started for me when I met you, Sherlock."

"There's still something between you."

"We have a common past and I like him. That's all."

John caught himself trying to end the conversation there. That wasn't good. Maybe the time had come to talk about it. The semi-annual veteran's meet-up was coming up, and Sherlock knew he'd see Sholto there, that the Major was coming just for him. John had attended these reunions ever since the wedding, since re-connecting with his former commanding officer and friend. Previous to that, he'd always tried to forget about his time during the war. 

Last time, Sherlock had been gone when John returned from the reunion, hadn't turned up for two days, and didn't say anything about where he'd been. He'd merely asked, "So how was the weekend with your friend?" Annoyed, John had answered that lots of his mates had been there, not just Sholto. They hadn't spoken of it again.

Sherlock was still typing. He'd only glanced up once, briefly, during the conversation, his gaze passing over John's before flickering away again. John watched him now, saw the tension in his posture, the fluttering of his fingers. He didn't know whether Sherlock was going to ask something else, or whether he'd given up.

John was aware of how jealous and possessive Sherlock was. He knew him all too well, including that side of him. They used to fight about it. Sherlock hadn't tolerated anyone at John's side. Neither man nor woman. It had been better with Mary. Sherlock had accepted Mary, even liked her. A girlfriend who hadn't come between them - John and Sherlock - but had brought them closer together. Mary was dead now, though. And since they'd been living together again in the flat on Baker Street, since their relationship had grown closer, Sherlock was more jealous than ever. That made a conversation like this difficult. It also made it necessary.

John closed his laptop and got up. He'd been working at the table, but now he walked over to where Sherlock was sitting on the couch. He went to him and slowly lowered the screen of Sherlock's laptop. Sherlock took his hands away, surprised, looked up and met John's eyes, the pale blue questioning, maybe a little irritated.

John took the computer off his friend's knees and set it on the coffee table with one hand as he grasped Sherlock's nervous fingers with his other one and sat down next to him. Warm, bony fingers allowed John to hold them steady and envelop them after a brief bout of resistance. A touch that Sherlock allowed.

"Sherlock. You're the most important person in my life. You know that, right? But there are other people out there who are also important to me. One of them is James Sholto."

Sherlock didn't answer. He stared at the floor in front of him. His fingers unsettled in John's hands. Sherlock was agitated. 

John asked, "What's so difficult about that for you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's hands wrapped around John's and squeezed them. "Why are you seeking physical contact with me when you want to talk about Sholto? Why are you holding my hands?" he asked anxiously. "You're making my body release oxytocin. Yours too. You're trying to calm us both before saying anything because you know it's going to be difficult. You're afraid of hurting me. You're securing contact with me on a physical level because you're afraid of my reaction. You're holding on to me. You're binding me to you, visibly and tangibly, so that I can't doubt the connection. You're avoiding a confrontation. You're afraid. I can't exactly say I find that very comforting."

Sherlock's words came fast and low. John was affronted at first, felt the impulse to flee twitch in his fingers, even as he fought against it at the same time. He sought contact with the pale blue eyes, studied them. The firm grip of their hands. Holding each other fast. Their combined strength. Sherlock was right. Warmth suffused John, flowed from his hands out into his body, relaxed him. Oxytocin. The touch changed things between them, forestalled an argument.

"All right." John slowly opened his hands, pulled them away from those of his friend. Then he said, quite clearly and a little more firmly than he'd intended, "I'll be seeing the Major at the veterans' get-together in a few days. I'm not going to spare you that, Sherlock. But there's no reason for you to be jealous. I promise."

Sherlock looked down at his hands, abandoned now and folded in his lap, his fingers restless. 

"Weren't you ever jealous?" he asked.

Eyes blue as water brushed John's before Sherlock looked away again to stare at his hands. John took a deep breath. No, he wasn't jealous. Not really. But there was someone he remembered. Someone who had threatened to destroy his entire life, everything that had been important to him. A severe, vicious threat that had almost suffocated him in fear and despair.

"Irene Adler," John said softly. "She succeeded in taking you away from me. Your attention, your heart, your time. Everything. Completely, in every way."

Sherlock swallowed hard. The blood had drained out of his face. He looked at John, a long time. Puzzled. Pensive. He didn't speak.

"Sholto can't do that," John went on. "No one can take you away from me. Not even Mary was able to do that."

John saw the blue of Sherlock's eyes widen. He didn't look away, instead meeting his gaze, allowing the examination. It was one of those moments in which John knew he wanted more. A hug. A caress. Some kind of proof of affection that went further than just a look.

***

John was on his third whisky. He'd fled from Baker Street after Sherlock had turned feebly away, picked up his laptop without any further ado and resumed working. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't heard the words. As if he hadn't understood what John had said. As if he hadn't comprehended that it was a declaration of love. Yet another one that he didn't react to.

The bar was two streets away. John came here sometimes when he needed some space. He knew a couple of people here by sight and ran into them now and then. Regulars. Maggie, the bartender, was drawing an ale and mixing up a whisky sour.

"Trouble?" she asked as she set the drink down in front of John. John was sitting all the way at the end of the bar. He didn't feel like talking to anyone.

"Nope," John said.

The golden drink left behind a pungent, burning sensation in his mouth. The spicy aromas of wood and smoke rose into his nose, distributed themselves in his mouth, spread through his head. Autumn, timber, the forest floor. Heat flowed into his body, a wave of warmth and relaxation. It was an excellent single malt. John closed his eyes. The air in the pub was stale and smelled of alcohol, perfume, and sweat. Background noise of chatting, laughing patrons on top of piano music from the speakers. The bar was well frequented, even on a weekday. 

Maggie was drying glasses behind the counter. "Is your Sherlock acting up again?" she asked.

YOUR Sherlock. If only it were that simple.

"He's not MY Sherlock," John growled.

"Whose is he then?" Maggie asked.

She tidied the glasses away on the shelf and started drawing the fifth ale that had been ordered. She kept working without ever showing any sign of being under stress. One motion slid seamlessly and harmoniously into the next. John admired Maggie for that, admired her calmness and serenity. 

Her question irritated him. He didn't answer it. Sherlock only had him. They lived together. They belonged together. Most people thought they were a couple. He'd stopped denying it. It came fairly close to the truth. They were a couple, even if their relationship didn't quite line up with what others might think.

They'd crossed a line back then, when Mary died. John had withdrawn into his grief, but Sherlock hadn't left him alone, had stayed with him, day and night. Day and night. And he, John, had put up with him - and only him - with his presence, his proximity, his attentions. They'd become close during that time. Very close. In a physical sense too.

John recalled the surprising feeling of comfort and happiness when Sherlock had put his arm around him on the couch for the first time, had held him close. All those hours, shoulder to shoulder, pressed tightly against each other, Sherlock's hand in his. Like lovers. The smell of Sherlock's neck where he'd rested his head, the fine texture of his hair. The intimate embraces. At some point, they'd kissed, soft and gentle. A sudden desire had welled up between them, and Sherlock had put an end to the moment when John had wanted to give in to it. 

Ever since then, almost a year now, they'd skirted that line. Sherlock was the one who had established it. And he continued to maintain it, moving it even further away every time so that they wouldn't be tempted anymore. John accepted it. But what they were doing wasn't normal, damn it! And it was hard! 

John set the empty glass down hard on the counter and ordered another whisky.

There had been moments. Attempts. Sherlock's hands on his face, the pale eyes clouded with lust, his own body on fire. And then the line was re-drawn. Abort. Almost impossible to endure. The resentment flaring up in him worried John. He'd started to avoid situations like that, not to initiate them anymore. Sherlock had asked for more time, and John had given it to him. Continued to give it to him. He wasn't sure anymore whether they would ever get to the point of sleeping together. Even though they'd both admitted they wanted to. Intention was one thing. Reality was something completely different.

Maggie put the next whisky down in front of John without being asked, along with a card; silent, inconspicuous, together with the glass. It was a simple white calling card. Maggie had laid it down with the blank side facing up. John picked it up and turned it over.

"What's this?" he asked grumpily.

"Give it a try," Maggie said as she took ice out of the freezer and dumped it into the ice crusher.

Someone had ordered a whisky julep.


	2. The Lowe Case

Two days later, shortly after 10 p.m., John returned home from his late shift at St Bartholomew's Hospital and heard the long, low, drawn-out tones of the violin as soon as he started up the stairs. Something must have happened. Sherlock only did that when something was really bothering him. 

Sherlock was sitting in his chair in front of the fireplace, lost in thought, staring off somewhere into the distance. He held the violin upright on his left thigh as he stroked the long bow across the strings. Very slowly, without exerting any pressure. A soft, scratchy, sonorous sound. His left hand on the fingerboard, as if in slow motion, fingering random notes on auto-pilot then lying still for long seconds while the bow set the strings in motion. Not in a melody. Just long, vibrating oscillations, so slow that they threatened to disintegrate into their overtones at any moment. Sherlock didn't seem to be aware of what he was doing.

John stopped in the doorway. This wasn't the first time he'd seen this. Sherlock sometimes put himself into a trance this way. When he wanted to submerge himself deep in his mind palace and follow the trail of some complex matter or other. It was a state of absolute concentration. John was about to step back again so as not to disturb him when Sherlock spoke without so much as looking up or lowering the bow:

"Stay here, John."

His voice sounded so distant that John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was really aware of him, or whether he was talking to himself. But then Sherlock raised his eyes and took the bow away from the strings. He looked at John, and John moved toward the light-coloured eyes, fascinated by the way they were still so distant, their focus turned inward as if in the grip of a dream, the pupils blown wide. Softly gleaming silken shimmers. John stopped in front of the armchair and they watched each other silently for several seconds, during which Sherlock found his way halfway back to the here and now. 

Then Sherlock said, "I'd like you to take a look at the Lowe file. It's in your inbox. I'd like to know what you think of it."

"All right." Their eyes still locked on each other, John asked, "What's it about?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze, slowly. He tuned the G and D strings absentmindedly.

"I'd like to take the case but I'll need you for it."

"Fine. I'll make myself a tea and have something to eat, then take a look at it."

John went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. As he was making himself some toast, the long, drawn-out notes started up again in the living room. Sherlock seemed to be quite preoccupied with something. The Lowe file? It was also highly unusual for the consulting detective to ask John's opinion on a case before deciding whether to take it on.

Fifteen minutes later, John sat in front of his laptop studying the PDF document. Two murders, both victims male, circa 30 years old. One was an engineer, Ferdinand Lowe, the other a baker, Henry Munro. Both single. Both had been found naked with stab wounds on the shore of a bathing pond, one in Colne Valley and the other in Hampstead Heath. The first murder - Lowe - was two years old, while Munro's had been last year. Both killings had taken place in August. And there was one more highly suspicious similarity: both victims had stayed at the Rosenfeld Rehab Centre in the months prior to their deaths.

The autopsy reports concluded that the men had died following a night-time swim. One had suffered three stab wounds to the neck and chest from the front, one of which had led to his death. The other had received four stab wounds, likewise to the neck and chest, two of which had been lethal. The murderer seemed to have acted in cold blood. The entry wounds were smooth and precise, as if the victims had already been lying down and simply allowed the attack to occur. Both men's genitals had been amputated. There were no signs of a struggle.

Sherlock had finished his meditative ramblings on the violin and was now playing a Corelli sonata, softly, in order not to disturb John while he read.

"Both murders took place almost exactly a year apart," John said. "Could there be some ritual behind it? An anniversary?"

Sherlock interrupted his playing for a moment. "Maybe. Or it could be coincidence. Both ponds are well frequented in August."

"The act seems to have a sexual connotation. And the Rosenfeld Centre. Anything there?"

Sherlock played the last couple of measures before lowering his instrument, setting it down on the coffee table and reaching for the cloth.

"I'm almost positive the Rosenfeld Centre is the right trail," he mused as he wiped the rosin dust off the hairs of the bow. "That's why I'd like to go in to investigate. It's July. Lestrade's afraid the next murder might happen next month."

"Rosenfeld's a psychiatric clinic."

"Both victims were there for a crisis intervention. I'll check myself in."

"That's not a good idea, Sherlock. Those are professionals there. They'll dissect you before you so much as open your mouth."

"That's why I need you, John. You're leaving me. I'll fall into a tailspin. They'll buy it."

John thought he must have heard wrong. "That's completely out of the question! Why should I leave you?"

"How should I know? You've found someone else, I get on your nerves, you don't love me anymore, you want to be free, some relationship issue or other. You're meeting up with Sholto soon, you'll be seen with him. That would be the perfect opportunity. Think of something. You're moving out. Find a bedsit or something."

John gaped at Sherlock in shock. His suggestion was so monstrous that John couldn't believe he was serious.

"I'm supposed to leave? Move out? Are you insane?"

Sherlock carefully cleaned his violin with the cloth. "It needs to be realistic," he said. "Otherwise we don't have a chance."

"You cannot be serious, Sherlock. What about Mrs Hudson? Lestrade? Molly? Mycroft?"

Sherlock looked up. His blue eyes were cool now. He was clearly determined to go through with it.

"Lestrade will probably figure it out, he knows the file. Everyone else will back us up by believing it and stating as much."

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock. I'm not prepared to lie to our friends and mess about with our relationship. It means too much to me for that."

It was quiet in the living room for several seconds. Sherlock polished the fingerboard of his violin until it was clean. John was upset. He stared at the file on the screen. The low hum of his laptop. The soft swish of the cloth on the wood of the violin. Both of them breathing. And the stillness of the room they'd shared for so long.

"John, I need some sort of crisis in order to check myself in," Sherlock started afresh. "It will break my heart when you leave. I'll get worked up emotionally. They'll believe me. We solve the case. Then you come back to Baker Street and everything will be like it was before."

"You have no idea, Sherlock," John retorted fiercely. "They'll take you apart and put you through treatment, including medication. It will change you. Rosenfeld's not a walk in the park. The clinic's notorious for playing hardball and not pulling any punches with their methods."

"Nothing can happen. We both know how things really are between us."

John closed his eyes. Something clenched in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Do you know that, then?" he goaded Sherlock in desperation. "Do you know how things really are between us?"

Sherlock froze for a moment. Then he placed the violin into its case, closed the lid, and flipped the catch. It was as silent as a grave in the living room of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock put the violin case into the cupboard and sat at the table across from John. They looked at each other. Held each other's gaze.

"You're operating too close to the heart, Sherlock," John said in a low voice.

"It's just a case, John. That's all."

John studied his friend's pale blue eyes, saw the flash of uncertainty there, just for a second.

"No," John said. "It's not just a case. You know that as well as I do. Let's find another way to do this, Sherlock."

"Both victims felt drawn to men, had sexual hang-ups and had been abandoned. I'm the ideal candidate," Sherlock said. It sounded completely matter-of-fact.

"The ideal bait," John corrected him.

"As I said: the ideal person for this investigation. Please, John. We've overcome far more dangerous situations."

John took a deep breath. Sherlock was right. This opportunity for an undercover investigation was practically dangling in front of their noses. Still, the plan filled him with a sense of unease that bordered on panic.

"On one condition: you include me in the investigation," he demanded.

"That won't work. You need to leave me. I need a viable crisis situation."

"You include me in the investigation. That's the condition. I don't care how."

"Fine. I'll see what I can do."

Sherlock was about to get up, but John held him by the wrist and pulled him back down to his chair. 

"No, Sherlock. We're apparently dealing with a brutal, sexually motivated killer here. I want to be near you, and kept informed. Either find a way to make that work or I'll blow your cover and drag you out of there."

They watched each other. John still held on to Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock hesitantly laid his hand on top of his friend's and squeezed it gently. 

"Yes, I understand, John. I promise."

***

John didn't feel good about the whole thing. He packed his suitcase and duffel bag. He was tired, had lain awake half the night brooding over what they had planned. He wasn't sure whether Sherlock realised what he was getting himself into. That scared him. The Rosenfeld Rehab Centre was well known for their therapeutic successes, but had also been the target of criticism in professional circles because of dubious and unscientific methods. John was bound and determined not to leave Sherlock at the mercy of a bunch of psychiatrists, shrinks, and therapists without some control over the situation.

What would Mrs Hudson say? John felt miserable about leaving Sherlock and causing him emotional turmoil. Even if it was all made up: it would send shock waves through their circle of friends. Mrs Hudson would suffer. Molly would be furious, Lestrade alarmed. John wasn't sure about Mycroft. He'd want to protect Sherlock, so he might even be relieved. At any rate, John would need to reckon with everyone coming after him. He needed to prepare and arm himself well. It wasn't like him to just leave someone like that. John knew he never would have done it, or would ever do it, without trying everything in his power first.

They'd discussed the plan a little that night. John had reserved a room in a bed and breakfast. Sherlock pushed him, wanted to move things forward as quickly as possible. Mrs Hudson was out of the house today, which was perfect. They didn't need to fake an escalation. When Mrs Hudson returned, John would be gone and Sherlock upset, nothing more to be done, the catastrophe already occurred.

John brought his suitcase and bag downstairs, left them in the hall and went into the living room. Sherlock stood at the fireplace waiting for him, pale and sombre.

"I'm ready," John said. "Can you call me a taxi?"

Sherlock silently took out his mobile phone and ordered a taxi. 

"Three minutes," he said in a flat voice. His hand was shaking when he set his phone down on the mantel.

John went over to him. They stood facing each other, looking into each other's eyes. Both wide open. Unsure whether what they were doing was a good thing or not.

"I'll inundate you with texts," Sherlock said with a wan smile. "But you're not to answer. Promise."

 _No, I'm not promising anything_. John didn't say it out loud. There was no response he could give. He reached out a hand to Sherlock and pulled him close. They hugged for a long time, not speaking. Longer than they ever had before. They just stood there in each other's arms, in the heat of each other's body, holding on. Until the taxi honked downstairs. John pulled back. Their hands brushed, held on for a moment. They looked at each other and nodded, both encouraging and anxious at the same time. Then John got his suitcase and duffel bag and left.

Later, when John felt in the pocket of his jacket for his wallet in order to pay the taxi, he found the calling card Maggie had given him. Tantric massage for couples. Strange idea of Maggie's. He couldn't for the life of him imagine Sherlock participating in a tantric massage. Or could he? Massage and relaxation were certainly part of the therapy at Rosenfeld. The thought that someone else might share a tantric massage with Sherlock flared up in him unexpectedly, making John shudder. He dismissed the thought. How absurd!


	3. Rosenfeld

_Sherlock's skin gleamed, sinuous and soft from the oil. John was sweating. It was warm; sultry. John could hardly breathe. The room was so close and dim. Candles. Dusky light. John ran his oiled hands over Sherlock's back, felt the quivering arousal they left in their wake. Sherlock moaned beneath him. Breathe! someone said. John forced himself to breathe, deep and deliberate. Inhale. Exhale - everything out - all the blockages - get rid of all the resistance. Breathe in deep - all the way in - open himself all the way - let it in - let the arousal in, all the way down to his groin. Breathe out - open wider - all the way open._

_John's cock stood up stiffly and throbbed. He was nude too, kneeling between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock's flesh slid through his hands as he massaged both globes of his arse, reached between the splayed thighs, slowly stroked the soft insides with firm pressure. It took his breath away. He longed to reach in further with his hand, further forward, to touch Sherlock's cock._

_Sherlock turned over then, slowly, sighing, and John saw that his friend was fully erect. He'd never seen him like this before. Firm and hard. His eyes glassy, his mouth open. John poured oil into his hands and rubbed them slowly and breathlessly over Sherlock's chest, touched the hard, dark nipples, kissed the soft, moist mouth, before sliding both hands down the slender body arching up to him, deliberately bypassing his navel on either side, over the gaunt hip bones to the centre._

_He touched Sherlock's penis, took it in his oil-slick hands, stroked and massaged it, let it slide through his fingers. Sherlock twisted and moaned, thrust into John's hand. Then all of a sudden he pulled John down to the mat with him, pushed him onto his back and slid on top of him, nestled his slippery, oiled body against him for a single, long moment. Stayed there, not moving, lying limply on top of him. It was hot, John could barely breathe. His erection was painful. He was about to suffocate underneath Sherlock._

John startled awake. He lay under a heavy, unfamiliar blanket at the guesthouse. It was hot, much too hot. He was sweating and his cock was hard. Like an iron bar. Fuck. This bloody tantric massage stuff was haunting him in his sleep. And look at the consequences! He didn't even have any idea what tantric massage was. What had Maggie done?

Sherlock. How was he doing? John reached for his mobile phone on the nightstand. 3:24 a.m. No messages. He hadn't heard anything from Sherlock since he'd left. That had been two days ago. 

John got up and went to the bathroom, took care of his erection. It went fastest when he thought of Sherlock - which he did now. He'd been doing it for a while. This wasn't the first time. It was what it was. John didn't waste time thinking about it any further. He was worried about his friend and partner. Was he already at the clinic? Or was he still at the Baker Street flat? Did Mrs Hudson know something already? He would have liked nothing more than to call Sherlock or at least send him a text, but he knew that would just be counterproductive. Sherlock would report in. He'd promised. And so John got back into bed and tried to sleep. He was on call all week at Bart's A&E and needed his rest. Anyway, it would take two or three days before Sherlock was checked in and diagnosed. He couldn't start with the investigation until then. 

The next time John woke up, his phone was ringing. It was shortly after eight. The sun had been up for a while and a fresh summer's day seeped through the thick blackout curtains. John reached for the mobile on the nightstand. It wasn't Sherlock. It was Mycroft.

"John. I'll expect to see you in my office at nine. I'm sending a car."

"Erm. I don't live at Baker Street anymore."

"I'm aware of that. I'll send the car to your new address." Mycroft's tone was harsh.

"I assume it's about Sherlock."

"You assume correctly. What else should it be about?"

What else indeed? There was no other reason, had never been any other reason for Mycroft to initiate contact with him.

"I have to be at Bart's at ten," John said.

"You'll be there in time to start your shift. I'll see you shortly."

Click. Mycroft had rung off before John had been able to say anything, not even a simple good-bye.

John showered and got ready. Mycroft had been quite short with him. He already knew that John had left Sherlock and the address of the B&B where he was staying. To judge by Mycroft's reaction, Sherlock was already at the Rosenfeld Rehab Centre. They'd probably informed Mycroft as his next of kin. And maybe Sherlock had asked his brother to let John know. No matter. Finally he had news of Sherlock, even if it came through Mycroft. They'd made contact. The game was on.

***

Mycroft was sitting behind his desk, deep in thought, his fingertips steepled beneath his chin. He looked up when John entered the office.

"Have a seat," he said without any further greeting.

John sat on the chair he'd indicated. Mycroft gave him a thorough once-over, not speaking, his eyebrows raised slightly. Creases formed on his forehead. He was unusually sombre. John felt uncomfortable beneath the probing gaze, but decided to wait until the other man spoke. Mycroft took his time. He inhaled sharply, absent-mindedly shuffled some papers around on his desk. 

Then he asked without any preamble, "Do you love my brother?"

John was completely thrown by the question. At any other time, he would have given an immediate, affirmative answer, if it weren't for the Lowe case and his promise to go along with Sherlock's investigation. It wasn't about him and Sherlock right now. It was about the case. 

And so he asked in return, "Can we get to the point?"

"I'm afraid that IS the point," Mycroft said, his voice laced with concern. And a couple of heartbeats later: "When was the last time you saw Sherlock?"

"The day before yesterday. In the morning."

"Sherlock tried to take his own life the night before last."

The shock knocked the air out of John's lungs for a moment, paralysing him. Take his own life? Damn it! What had Sherlock done? John tried to compose himself, swallowed with effort.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice flat.

"He slit his wrists. Fortunately, he came to his senses in time to put a pressure dressing on and check himself into a psychiatric clinic."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. This was a completely different ball game than what he'd expected. Sherlock had harmed himself. This was no game anymore. Not one he wanted to play along with. Damn it! _Damn you, Sherlock! Why? Why slit your wrists? Fuck! Fuck, Sherlock! Why would you do something like that?_ John had closed his eyes. It took a few seconds before he was able to formulate a coherent thought. 

Then he asked, "Where is he?"

"In the Rosenfeld Rehab Centre."

"Can I see him?"

"No. He's in the midst of a crisis intervention. No visitors. Most especially not YOU, John."

John fell silent. Sherlock was where he'd wanted to be. But at what cost?

"Why did you leave him?" Mycroft asked.

"That's between me and Sherlock," John sidestepped. 

"Not when my brother kills himself over it!" Mycroft's volume increased audibly.

"There are various reasons," John conceded. "I'm not going to elaborate them for you. Ask your brother."

"That's not feasible at the moment."

"Then give him some time. He's being well taken care of at Rosenfeld."

"And you? What are you going to do?"

"The same thing," John replied.

He was lying. He knew he was going to contact the clinic right away and find a way to get to Sherlock.

"John. I don't know what Sherlock sees in you, but obviously you're more important to him than I thought. I ask you to reconsider. It can't be so bad that you can't live with him anymore."

"It's not about living together."

Mycroft exhaled audibly through his nose. "I was afraid of that," he said.

***

John let Mycroft's limo bring him to Bart's. He'd come to an agreement with the elder Holmes brother that they would stay in touch until Sherlock was doing better. During the drive, John read in shock the text message that Sherlock had sent in the meantime:

_I love you, John. SH_

John stared at the display. The words confused and unsettled him, although he suspected they were part of the role Sherlock was playing. Still, he couldn't hide from that clear, simple statement. It touched his heart, unfiltered, warmed it and made it beat more strongly. John knew he wasn't allowed to answer. That was a good thing. He wouldn't have known what to write. _I love you too_. Would he have done that? Would he have written those words back to Sherlock if the conditions were different? In real life, no games? Yes, most likely. If Sherlock allowed such open communication, then he would too.

John changed at the hospital, put on standard doctor's garb. Then he sought refuge in an empty staff lounge and called the Rosenfeld Centre. Surprisingly, he wasn't turned away. Instead, after answering a couple of questions to confirm his identity, he was put through to the doctor who was treating Sherlock. Dr Melicia Kenny.

"We'd like to speak with you, Dr Watson," she said. Her voice candid and friendly. "Would you be prepared to come to the Rosenfeld Centre?"

Yes, of course. Of course John would do that. He was pleased everything was working out so well.

***

The clinic was situated a little ways outside of the city. A collection of baroque and modern architecture, set in the midst of a wide-flung park that was surrounded by a fence at least two metres high. John walked through the wrought iron gate and up the path lined with light-coloured gravel that led to the columned entryway of the baroque style main building. It was a rambling, three-story affair that presented itself like a fortress with its massive structure to anyone who approached. Daunting and defiant. A fountain splashed in the little square in front of it. 

John checked in at the reception desk and someone came to get him. Long hallways. An old stone staircase leading up to the first floor. Brick floors. It smelled like disinfectant and coffee. Dr Kenny's consultation room was a high-ceilinged, light-filled space with a stuccoed ceiling and large, latticed windows. Simple furnishings. Houseplants. John sat in the lime green upholstered armchair he was shown to.

Dr Kenny was older than her voice on the telephone had led him to expect. Maybe 60, or even older. Her hair was kinked and grey and she'd tied it back at the nape of her neck, a tangled bundle. Her greenish blue eyes were alert and friendly, her smile honest and open, her handshake firm and warm. A faint strawberry scent seemed to emanate from her. She was a charismatic person.

"You know that your partner slit open the arteries of his wrists?" she asked once she'd brought John a glass of water and sat down in the armchair across from him. "And you know the reason?"

"I moved out of the flat we shared. I assume that's the reason."

"What makes you think that?"

"It happened the same day. We'd had an argument." A couple of seconds later, John asked, "How is he?"

"We're in the midst of determining how we can help him. He'll need to stay here a while." Dr Kenny observed John keenly. "Your partner says he's very jealous," she then stated.

"Yes, he is."

"How do you deal with that?"

How did he deal with it? Hard to say. John gave it some thought. "I try to reassure him and still live my life," he finally answered.

"Did he have any reason to be jealous?"

John almost said no. But then he remembered there needed to be a reason for their split. He recalled Sherlock's suggestion that he make use of the meeting with Sholto, and said, "Not in my eyes. In his apparently, though."

"He said you're meeting up with a very close friend next weekend."

"Yes, that's true. I see him regularly. I don't like being blackmailed, you see."

The corners of Dr Kenny's mouth twitched. "Do you feel like you're being blackmailed?"

"Sherlock makes me feel guilty. I always feel uneasy when I meet someone. I know it hurts him. His jealousy distresses me."

"Guilty conscience. Whose problem is that?" Dr Kenny asked.

John took a deep breath. "Mine," he said.

Dr Kenny smiled. Then she said, "Your partner says he's not able to satisfy you sexually. Do you think that's one reason for his jealousy?"

Not that too. Fuck! This could not be happening. Sherlock had really laid all the cards out on the table. _What are you doing to me, Sherlock? What are you doing to me!_

"He was already quite jealous when that wasn't an issue between us. When we were just friends," John said, hoping that would satisfy Dr Kenny and put an end to the topic. But he'd made his calculation without taking the doctor into consideration.

"How do you live out your sexuality, Dr Watson?" she asked.

That went too far for John, and his reply was defiant: "I don't think that's relevant here."

It was quiet in the room for several seconds. Young sparrows squalled outside the window, wanting to be fed by their parents.

"You're Mr Holmes' partner," Dr Kenny said calmly. "You live with him in a monogamous relationship. He cannot give you the sexual attention you need, yet he ties you down. Whose problem is that?"

Damn it! John felt fury rising in him and flooding him with its heat.

"It's MY problem," he said, harsh and angry, making an effort not to shout. "And I've solved it. I've left him!"

John was shocked at his own words. He'd stood up, his fists clenched, ready to leave. He was beside himself with rage. Full of hot, bubbling, bitter rage. Such strong emotions. Where had they come from? And why? _Damn it, Sherlock. What are we doing here?_ Dr Kenny's green-bue eyes rested calmly on him. John had wanted to storm out, but it was as if he were frozen in place. What was he running from? He was here to solve a case. Sherlock was somewhere in the house, most likely along with a savage, sexually motivated killer.

"Can I see him?" he asked, now conciliatory.

"No."

Dr Kenny's tone was clear and definitive. She stood, picked up a notebook and pen from the desk and held them out to John. "But if you'll leave your contact information here, I'll keep you informed. I think that's what your partner would want. And you know how to reach me."


	4. The Major

John returned home from Bart's to his one-room apartment and made some tea. It was dreary being alone. Being without Sherlock. Without the familiar flat on Baker Street, without Mrs Hudson. How was the older woman doing? John would have to go to Baker Street at some point in the next few days, for better or worse. He still had some personal items there that he needed. But he was afraid of running into Mrs Hudson, so he kept putting it off. He had enough other problems plaguing him. 

He was worried about Sherlock, for one thing. He couldn't figure out what had happened at the clinic. Dr Kenny had provoked him, poked at his tender spots. She was apparently interested in him. John hoped she would consider including him in Sherlock's therapy. He'd asked around. Dr Melicia Kenny was known for taking unconventional approaches. That didn't always please family members, who she tended to rope into things. She was his only direct connection to Sherlock. But she was also keeping him from Sherlock. Luckily they were able to text, and Sherlock had begun what he'd referred to as the "inundation":

_Am allowed to use my mobile 2x30 minutes a day. SH_

_John, I miss you. SH_

_Had talk therapy. Dr Kenny said you were here. SH_

_Having massages, find it difficult. Luckily the masseur is patient. SH_

_Sensory therapy today. Fascinating. SH_

_John John John John John - can't think of anything else. SH_

_Need psychotherapy. First session ok. SH_

_Cried a lot last night. Don't know why. Everything's so exhausting here. SH_

_Group therapy was absurd. Refused to participate. SH_

_Allowed to walk in the park starting today, with an escort. SH_

_Think about you constantly. SH_

_No appetite. Food is horrid. Looking forward to Thai. SH_

_Had coffee with the masseur. He's quite nice. SH_

The masseur. Sherlock wouldn't mention him twice without a reason. What did that mean: He's quite nice? Was he a lead? Sherlock seemed to be warming up to him, going to have coffee with him. John couldn't exactly say that comforted him. Dr Kenny hadn't contacted him again either. John decided to call her.

***

Sherlock looked awful. Thin, pale, and sunken in on himself. His eyes red, his expression fearful and distant at the same time. Both wrists bandaged. His hands nervous. It was clearly visible even though he had them clenched together in his lap. Sherlock was sitting on one of the park's wooden benches. An escort beside him, a young female orderly. John hesistated, but Dr Kenny touched him lightly on the arm and said, "It's all right. He wanted to see you."

John allowed himself to be led more than walking over on his own, stopped mutely in front of the bench. He was shocked by the piteous sight Sherlock presented. Shy, watery blue eyes looked up at him. Sherlock's lips formed a soundless 'John'.

John hunkered down in front of him, dismayed, reached for the tangled fingers of his friend, which immediately wrapped themselves around his hand. John could feel the bony hands shaking.

"Sherlock," he said softly.

He was appalled when tears promptly shot into Sherlock's, filling them. Abundantly. The wetness flowed unhindered down his hollow cheeks. 

Dr Kenny laid a hand on John's shoulder. "Sit with him," she said.

John stood up so he could sit down beside Sherlock on the bench and held him as Sherlock sank down against him, clung to him, his face pressed into John's neck as he cried freely. John put his arms around him, pulled the haggard figure toward him, nudged his nose into the tangled hair and closed his eyes. Sherlock smelled unfamiliar. Different. 

John was confused. He wasn't sure what was going on here. Was this all an act? Was it real? Sherlock could cry on command, he knew that. He'd seen it on multiple occasions. Sherlock used tears unabashedly whenever they helped him solve a case. He could play with other people's emotions incredibly easily, and did so freely. But this? Sherlock's fingers digging into his light summer jacket. Right through to the flesh underneath, painful. The shaking body in his arms. All the tears seeping unchecked into his collar. And yet none of the texts he'd received had given any indication that Sherlock was doing poorly. Aside, perhaps, from the remark about crying at night. John had automatically dismissed it as part of the role Sherlock was playing.

"Stay with me, John. Please," Sherlock sobbed into his neck. John rubbed his hand across the bony back, lost in thought.

The orderly had withdrawn, and Dr Kenny sat down next to John, touched his shoulder lightly with her hand and asked gently, "Is this all right for you? Can you handle it?"

John nodded. He slowly separated himself from Sherlock, pushed the matted hair back out of his face, stroked his cheek and nodded to him encouragingly. Sherlock accepted the tissue that John handed him.

"I'd like to include you in Sherlock's therapy, Dr Watson," the doctor said. "I realise you've already solved your own problem by leaving your partner. I'll respect that. The choice will remain yours, and you can stop at any time. Would you be willing to help Sherlock get past this crisis under those conditions?"

Yes! It was working! Excellent! John had to rein himself in so as not to agree too quickly or too happily. He pretended to think about it, searched Sherlock's eyes as they clung to his, fearful and pleading.

"Please, John," Sherlock whispered.

John took Sherlock's hand as it reached for him, held it in his.

"Do you really want that, Sherlock?" he asked, gazing into the despondent, pale blue eyes. "It will mean confronting you with all of those painful issues again."

Sherlock lowered his eyes. Then he squeezed John's hand lightly and answered in a faint voice, "Yes, I want that. It will help me."

"Your partner knows that the two of you will be going your separate ways," Dr Kenny told John. "He knows the goal of the therapy is to solve his problem. Not to get you back."

John took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "Under those conditions, I'll do it."

***

The veterans' reunion. John went only with great reluctance. Even though he'd been looking forward to it so much. But now everything was different. No jealous partner anymore for him to wrest the outing from. No justifications. No scenes. He was free. And he was alone. But there was a man in a clinic who was so dependent on him that he could scarcely believe it himself. Who represented home so strongly, no matter whether it was Baker Street or Rosenfeld. Who had cried in his arms. He couldn't erase the image, had a harder time dealing with it than he'd thought. Sherlock. 

John thought about him as he got ready, buttoned up his suit jacket in front of the mirror, straightened his tie. He wanted to see Major James Sholto. Yes, he did. He wanted to see him, wanted to see the man who had once meant so much to him and still did. Major Sholto. There was no one else who was bound to him by such a meaningful past.

Through the Major, he'd learned what friendship was. Friendship in its deepest, purest sense. _I'm prepared to die for you._ No more. No less. The willingness to give your life. It hadn't been just theory, back then in Afghanistan, no mere sentiment. It had been their daily routine. The most valuable and at the same time the most unnecessary thing you could give. Life. Friendship and sacrifice, realised in each and every moment. Omnipresent. _I'm prepared to die for you._ A single shot. The blast of a grenade. Good-bye forever. The measure of friendship. Letting go. _You go, I'll stay._ It didn't change anything. Death didn't change anything about the connection. Bodies of fellow men-in-arms, torn into bloody pieces. Familiar faces shredded. Beloved eyes dimmed. Blood. Gristle. Brains. Organic matter. The monstrosity of death. Day after day. Night after night. Sadness. Powerlessness. Hopelessness. Fear. Friendship as the only source of survival, emotionally, mentally, physically. A single ideal, forged and refined in fire and blood. An indestructible island in a world of horror.

They were both alive, he and Sholto, had both survived. That was no trivial thing. The vow remained in effect. _Me for you, you for me._ Friendship in a context that might be incomprehensible outside of war. Intimacy that had no parallel in civilian life. Clear, simple, straightforward. That's how it was with the Major. Just like that, nothing else. Even the most adventurous crime-chasing life in civilian London couldn't come close to encompassing what the horrors of war meant. Sherlock was right to be jealous.

John stared into the grey eyes in the mirror. There was something deep down that belonged to Major James Sholto, and which he kept hidden from Sherlock.

Sherlock was right to be jealous.

The realisation wouldn't leave John alone. He thought about Sherlock and the thought pained him. Pained him more than ever before. He felt guilty. He also thought about Sherlock as he sat across from James, looking into the wonderfully clear blue eyes. The rims of their wine glasses touched, emitting a light, lingering tone.

"You're thinking about something," Sholto said.

John smiled. "I can't hide anything from you, can I?"

"Sherlock?"

"He tried to kill himself."

A strange topic beween men who had desperately fought every single second, for years, to preserve life.

"The way he loves you is pretty intimidating," Sholto said. "I thought that back at your wedding."

"Intimidating?"

Sholto lowered his eyes. Took his time. He was a man who took time. He'd looked death in the eye and walked away. Nothing else counted after that. Each and every second was valuable, meant diligence, pleasure, discovery. 

"Intimidating in its complexity," he said. "The elaborate intricacy of his personality is reflected in his love. Maybe you need to look at it like that in order to understand him. He's a highly unusual man. You should be proud of his friendship."

John gazed into the tranquil eyes, their faded blue glowing in the light of the lamp. James was a very special man. Like Sherlock. Or rather, he was a counterpoint to Sherlock. He spoke about love with a matter-of-factness that was foreign to John.

"Why did he want to kill himself?" the Major asked.

John took a deep breath. He didn't know what to answer. Should he lie to James? Tell him the truth? He couldn't. He'd promised Sherlock he would play his role.

"I've left him," John said.

He didn't look at the man across from him as he spoke. And since Sholto remained silent for a long while, John asked, "Don't you ever miss it? Living with death, how it makes everything so simple and clear and intense?"

Sholto's pale eyes studied him intently. His reply was kind and gentle, saying, "No, I don't miss anything that has to do with war. It's not the danger that makes life so intense, John. It's the inner peace that allows you to be close to things."

John looked into the beautiful eyes, their affectionate gaze resting on him. There was no one else who John trusted so implicitly. There was no one else whose eyes he could look into so long and so unreservedly. Sholto had an inner wisdom and peace that made it easy to believe him.

Sholto's healthy hand rested on the table, relaxed. John felt for it. Their hands closed over each other and they looked at each other the way they often had out in the field before battles and unwinnable encounters, ready to die for each other. Ready to lose themselves.

They held each other's gaze for a long time. The air between them reverberated. Sholto finally withdrew his hand from John's. He smiled thoughtfully as he said, slow and deliberate, "We're not at war anymore, John. Wake up. Go to Sherlock. He needs you. And you need him."

***

John stared out at the night-time streets as they passed by, not really seeing them. He'd left the veterans' meeting before the actual festivities had begun. He'd given the taxi driver the wrong address: 221B Baker Street. He was restless and somehow disorientated. He couldn't go to Sherlock. He felt as if he was the one who had been abandoned.

The flat was dark. Mrs Hudson was probably already asleep. John fumbled for the key. The flat was empty and smelled as if it hadn't been aired out. John opened a window and let the night air stream in. He poured himself a double whisky, sat down in his chair in front of the fireplace and stared out into the darkness. Sherlock's text spun around in his head, making his heart clench:

_During my meditation session I see myself drifting away from you and I can't stop it. SH_


	5. The Elm Tree

John kept his eyes closed. The afternoon sun flirted with the leaves of the elm tree. It was pleasantly warm. Ducks quacked somewhere in the park. Sherlock's hair tickled his neck. John drew him closer. Dr Kenny had sent them out into the park. They were supposed to find a bench and sit there together for an hour. It was one of the assignments they had to complete as part of the therapy.

"Is the masseur a lead?" John asked without opening his eyes.

"He's inordinately interested in me at any rate. That's why it would be best if he didn't see us like this."

John smirked. It was Sherlock who had pressed up against him as soon as they'd sat down. John hadn't done anything more than lay his arm across Sherlock's shoulder. Everything else was Sherlock's doing. It felt incredibly good. Sherlock's body. His hair. His breath. His smell. John didn't intend to rebel at the moment.

They'd both agreed immediately on this particular bench. It had virtually drawn them in, as if by magic. It lay hidden beneath overhanging branches that reached almost to the ground. The pale leaves rustled softly in the summer breeze that wafted through the park. It was an unexpected utopia that enveloped them and drew them closer to each other. They dozed in the shade of the mighty tree like a pair of lovers.

An hour. They were supposed to sit here for an entire hour in preparation for the subsequent talk therapy session together. That was all. Nothing more.

"Do we need to talk?" John asked.

"Not that I know of."

"The investigation?"

"Still in the early stages. The masseur likes to talk, and I've told him my entire life story - all made up, of course. You have a lot of time during a massage. If anyone is able to access personal information, it's him. He's worked here for five years and also treated the victims. He's suspicious at any rate. Beyond that, he's also an excellent source of information. I'm going to keep after him."

"Watch out for yourself, Sherlock."

"Nothing will happen as long as I'm at the clinic."

"Be careful anyway, all right?"

Sherlock hummed. Hair brushed John's neck. The tip of a nose, sniffing, snuffling, lips, tongue. A soft, wet nuzzle behind his ear. Sherlock kissed and suckled the sensitive spot, and John's body promptly responded. He reached into Sherlock's hair and pulled him away from his neck.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Making sure of you. How was the veterans' meeting?"

"I wasn't there long."

"Did you see Sholto?"

"Yes, I drank a glass of wine with him and we talked. Then I went to Baker Street." John smiled. "I slept in your bed and caught an earful from Mrs Hudson."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you stay at the meeting?"

John considered what he should say. Finally, he replied, "The Major sent me to you."

"Oh."

Sherlock didn't push for more. And John didn't offer anything more. They both fell silent, wrapped up in their own thoughts. John still had his eyes closed, ears perked for the sounds of the park. Ducks quacking. Sparrows chittering. People's voices far away. The wind up in the crown of the elm. Sherlock on his shoulder. Time. How long and fulfilling an hour could be!

They walked back down the gravel path to the main building once the sixty minutes were over. Dr Kenny was already waiting for them in her consultation room.

"So, the elm," she said with a smile. "Did you know that the elm tree has an unusually deep and stable root system? It teaches us to allow motion without fear. And it stands for direct, heart-to-heart communication. How did it go under the elm tree?"

John and Sherlock looked at each other. 

"It was... peaceful," Sherlock said.

"And for you, Dr Watson?"

Damn it! So that's how things were around here. You couldn't take a single step, make a single gesture, take a single breath, without being analysed. They really needed to watch out.

"It was nice," John said.

He realised he couldn't have given a more paltry answer. Dr Kenny laughed, but allowed the response.

***

An hour later, everything was different. Sherlock sat on the floor in a corner, ashen-faced and exhausted, panting as he slumped against the wall. John stormed out and slammed the door shut behind him. He hurried along the corridor, down the stairs, and out through the baroque columned entryway. Once outside, he stopped, distraught. The summer sun shone down on the light-coloured gravel of the square, making him squint. The fountain splashed on, oblivious.

_I don't need you. You're nothing more than an albatross around my neck._

The hateful words Sherlock had spat out. Along with a never-ending flood of annihilating accusations and imputations. His face contorted, emotions uncontrolled.

_Go to your bloody Major! A cripple for a cripple. You can rub one out together and celebrate your damn war!_

John had lost it.

_Your empathy doesn't even go as far as your own dick. YOU'RE the cripple! Arrogant arsehole._

Dr Kenny had placed them in opposite corners of the room, limited their range of motion with two upholstered armchairs and fanned the fire of the conversation to such an extent that the only possible outcome was a confrontation. John didn't even know how it had happened anymore. Everything had bubbled up, risen like molten lava, and burst out. Insults, disappointments, pain. Unbridled fury. They'd shouted accusations at each other, anything that came to mind. Up to and including the most primitive name-calling.

John had ended up lashing out at anything and everything, blind and implacable, had shouted at the man in the opposing corner with his ridiculous orange armchair until he was exhausted. Had been hit by a shock wave as a biting, disparaging, on-target tirade of invective was sent back at him. Sherlock's unfiltered aggression. A firestorm that had made him stumble back against the wall. He'd shot back with everything he had, ranted and raged, out of control, pounded his fist into the padding of the armchair in front of him that blocked his way, the fucking lime green thing. He wanted nothing more than to slam his fist into Sherlock's face, beat him bloody, to make him stop, just to make him stop. But he hadn't stopped. John had been knocked down again by a fresh wave of hate and contempt, and been shocked by its vehemence. At some point, nothing more had come. He'd screamed himself empty. Hadn't found any more words he might have slung back, hadn't had any strength left. It just became still. Sherlock had broken down gasping in the corner. And John had fled.

He stood on the gravel-lined square in front of the fountain, his hands clenched into rock-hard fists. His heart was racing and raging, yet it was completely empty. He was unable to formulate a single thought. He didn't understand anything anymore. And he was afraid. Terribly afraid that everything was over. That he'd never be able to forgive what he'd heard. He felt helpless and abandoned. But he recalled Dr Kenny's words: _No matter what happens, we'll meet back in the consultation room at 4 p.m._ That was in about twenty minutes. A lighthouse in a stormy sea. Dr Kenny. John wouldn't have known what to do otherwise. He had lost all sense of orientation, didn't know what to do with himself or with what had happened. He was grateful for this opportunity. The only opportunity he saw.

He walked a short distance through the park. The duck pond. People on the benches, reading, dozing or chatting in the shade of the trees. The bench under the elm tree was empty. Abandoned. John was grateful. He couldn't have stood it if strangers had been sitting there. 

John returned to the consultation room at 4 p.m.

"Have a seat, Dr Watson."

Sherlock was sitting in his orange armchair. He looked terrible. Raw and shattered. John sat in the lime green armchair across from him. Two metres apart. The room smelled surprisingly good: fresh, different than earlier.

"What hit you the hardest, Dr Watson?" Dr Kenny asked calmly.

John reflected. "The contempt that was directed at me," he answered. "The hate. All that negative energy." John's voice was low and thick. He could barely speak. The effort it took to form words was almost too great to overcome.

"What do you have to say to that, Sherlock?" Dr Kenny asked.

Sherlock stared at John. Drained and disbelieving. His eyes watery and red.

"I don't hate him," he said eventually, so soft as to barely be audible. "I don't feel any contempt toward him either. I love him."

"So the hatred and contempt have nothing to do with him. What then?"

Sherlock sank down in his chair a little. He seemed to be thinking about something. It was quiet for a long time. Dr Kenny waited patiently. John closed his eyes. He felt dizzy. He was torn up inside, confused.

"With me," Sherlock said finally, utterly defenseless.

"Can you explain a little more what you mean?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. It took a few seconds before he spoke: "I can't satisfy him. I hate and despise myself."

It was silent in the room. Dr Kenny let the silence simply exist. For several minutes. Then she turned to Sherlock again.

"You heard John's reservations and accusations toward you. What hurt you the most?"

Sherlock raised his eyes and looked at John. His gaze flickered. "He doesn't trust me," he said dully. The pain was audible in his voice, the reproach as well.

John's stomach clenched uncomfortably. He felt something stir inside that might have been the initial stages of anger.

"What do you say to that, John?"

John closed his eyes. There was something hard inside him. Bitterness. Sherlock had played with him, over and over again. Hadn't taken him seriously. Had laughed at him, insulted him. There was a differential. A reserve. He needed to protect himself from Sherlock. There was always a smidgen of mistrust. The only person John trusted entirely was himself. And the Major.

John looked up, met Dr Kenny's blue-green eyes and said, ashamed, "He's right."

Sherlock gasped softly. An expression of surprise, perhaps. Or pain. Then it was quiet again for a while.

"We'll work on these themes," Dr Kenny said after a while. "On your self-love, Sherlock. And on your trust, John. Sleep on what happened today. You'll have an idea tomorrow of which statements still bother you. Each of you should make a list. We'll meet at ten tomorrow morning."

Dr Kenny took her papers with her and left the room without another word. John and Sherlock stayed behind, alone. John didn't know what was going on in his head anymore. Or his heart. He was happy that Sherlock stayed seated too and didn't leave. They were both silent. Out in the corridor, people walked past, chatting and laughing. Dr Kenny had left the door open. John stood up and pulled it closed. Then he turned back to Sherlock, who was still in his chair. They held each other's gaze, a silent, lingering look. Both men unsettled.

"I can't take what's happening here, Sherlock. Let's break it off."

John was shocked at how empty his voice sounded. Sherlock's eyes remained on him for several seconds, probing. Then Sherlock slowly shook his head, stood up, walked over to John and stopped right in front of him.

"We can do this, John," he said, his pale eyes determined. "We've been through worse together."

"No. Not something like this. This could destroy our friendship, Sherlock."

"No, it can't." Sherlock's voice was firm and steady. "We won't let it."

John closed his eyes. He felt dizzy. The profound exhaustion he felt scared him. Sherlock placed one hand on his shoulder. John gave in to the light nudge; their foreheads touched.

"John. I need to tell you something. Dave has invited me to go swimming with him tomorrow evening at one of the bathing ponds on Hampstead Heath."

"Who's Dave?"

"The masseur."

John pulled away from Sherlock so he could look at him.

"I thought you weren't allowed to leave the grounds."

"Not without supervision. But he counts as a therapeutic escort."

"When?"

"Five p.m. We're going with his car. He said he'll bring a picnic."

"Fuck!" John paced back and forth, shaken. "You're not going, Sherlock. Not alone."

"Nothing's going to happen, John. The other two victims weren't killed until after they'd been released from the clinic. Nothing will happen while the treatment's in progress."

"How can you know that? Maybe you won't be killed, fine. But we have no idea what else happened. The victims are dead and can't tell us. And the killer might do something different this time. Which pond are you going to?"

"I don't know."

"The men's pond is a gay meeting spot, Sherlock."

"We're looking for a murderer who had it in for men like that, John."

Damn it! Damn! No! He was not about to let Sherlock go to those ponds with Dave. John blew out a breath, agitated.

"I'll let Lestrade know," he said.

"Not yet. We don't have any proof. He's only invited me to go swimming. That's not a crime. Not even if he gropes me. We're after a killer."

John shook his head. "It's too dangerous. You're practically offering yourself up to him on a silver platter."

"That is rather the point of this whole thing."

"I'm coming with you."

"You can't. He can't be allowed to see you. You've left me, John, remember?"

John paced back and forth, trying to think. "I'll bring a weapon for you tomorrow, at any rate."

Sherlock smiled. "They confiscate everything that might even hint at being used as a weapon. I'm suicidal. They check every day. You can spare yourself the trouble, John. I can't hide it."

"Listen," John said. "I'm going to be at that pond. One way or another. No one can stop me from going swimming. Not even you. And he doesn't know me."

"Yes, he does. He sees you coming and going and knows that you're here for me. He has access to the therapy schedules. You'll endanger the entire mission if you show up at the ponds. But if you were close by... I'll send you a text if I need you."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes. They were decisive. That look told John any further discussion would be superfluous. Sherlock was going to do it. With or without him. And there was an important point to bear in mind: Sherlock had told him about it, was including him. That was good. And he had to admit: the ponds were busy and it was highly unlikely that the perpetrator would strike now. Especially as it was obvious who Sherlock was going swimming with - if anyone even knew aside from him. John took a deep breath, concerned.

"All right. I'll think about it," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow in therapy."

He took his jacket and headed for the door but turned back around when Sherlock spoke, his voice low: "John. There's something I need to tell you."


	6. Layers

_John. There's something I need to tell you._ Sherlock had put his arms around John's neck and hugged him, gentle and cautious. _I really do love you. I'm not making that up. It's important that you know that. No matter what happens._

John drove to Hampstead Heath, to the mixed bathing pond. Surprisingly, Dave and Sherlock had gone there rather than the men's pond. In the afternoon, the area was teeming with families and children, but in the evening it was quieter here than at the men's pond, where things only really got started after the workday was over. 

John walked down the path along the western side of the pond. If Sherlock's directions were correct, they were somewhere here in the wooded area along the shore. They hadn't gone to the official swimming area at the northern end of the pond. Dave was apparently looking for some privacy. John strolled along, his jacket hooked over his shoulder like the other pedestrians taking an evening walk through the park. But all of his attention was focused on the shore area. A couple of isolated foot trails led away from the official path into the scraggly woods that hid the pond from view. John walked down each one, making sure to stay hidden, and carefully peered out at the water. He didn't want Sherlock to see him. They'd agreed that he would wait in the bathing area. But John had disregarded that. He wanted to see where Sherlock was. And what Dave and Sherlock were doing. Sherlock's unexpected declaration of love didn't ease his mind at all. Quite the opposite. It sounded as if Sherlock had wanted to prepare him for something.

A few scattered couples sat in the cosy spots by the water, now and again there was a family. They napped, chatted, picnicked, and bathed. The rush was over, most people had already gone home. No sign of Sherlock and Dave. John had checked out nearly all of the cross-paths when he heard laughter out in the water. The echo carried the sound across the surface of the water right to him. It was Sherlock's laugh. John immediately slipped behind the tree he was standing next to. Sherlock was splashing around with Dave, almost in the middle of the pond. With Dave and a third person. A woman. All three of them were laughing and splashing each other enthusiastically. Then the woman swam towards the shore, Dave and Sherlock followed. 

John drew back to hide behind a tree a bit further away. The other three came up on shore and dried off. With a cheerful, carefree gesture, Dave slung his arm around Sherlock's neck and pressed his face into the side of Sherlock's wet head for a brief moment as he rubbed his hair dry. It was just for the fraction of a second, more towel than skin contact between them, the act obviously springing from an impulse of spontaneous good cheer, but John's heart skipped a painful beat before beginning to pound heavily. And he knew right then, should Dave really make a pass at Sherlock, he would intervene immediately and put an end to the whole thing.

But then the three of them sat down on the blanket that was spread out on the ground and started in on the picnic as they chatted. They toasted with wine as they talked. The woman - with short, blonde hair - slipped an olive into Sherlock's mouth, then playfully licked the oil off his lips. Just brief and fleeting, but there was absolutely no doubt what the action meant. John was utterly dumbfounded. What was going on here? Apparently both of them - Dave and the woman - were interested in Sherlock. And Sherlock was going along with all of it. John didn't know what he should do. Go to the bathing area and wait until Sherlock contacted him as they'd agreed? No. Not under these conditions. He decided to stay where he was behind the tree and continue observing the trio.

Nothing in particular happened after that, aside from a quick touch on the shoulder, a nudge to the side. After about two hours, the three of them packed up their things and came up the foot trail. John beat a hasty retreat. He went up to the bathing area and sat on a bench to wait for a signal from Sherlock; either Sherlock himself showing up, or a text. Like they'd agreed. But nothing came. An hour later, John broke his promise and texted Sherlock:

_Sherlock? Everything ok? JW_

No response.

_Sherlock, answer me. JW_

_Sherlock! I'm worried about you. Where are you? JW_

It was already getting dark and the swimming area had closed a while ago when John sent one last text before setting out for his one-room apartment.

_If I haven't heard anything by 11 pm I'm sounding the alarm. JW_

Once back home, he started up his laptop and searched through the Rosenfeld Rehab Centre's web page for Dave. There was a profile of him as a member of the team: Dave Dallenport. John did some research and was soon able to find his home address. He lived quite close to the Rosenfeld Centre. John set out immediately. It was just past 11 p.m. and John was sitting in the back of a taxi on his way to Dave's, determined to ring up to the man's flat and get Sherlock out of there, when a text from Sherlock arrived:

_At the clinic. Everything ok. SH_

John, both angry and relieved, wrote back:

_On my way. JW_

_The clinic is locked down at night. SH_

_Come down to the park. JW_

_No, John. I want to sleep. We'll see each other tomorrow. Everything's fine. Nothing happened. SH_

_Sure? JW_

_Positive. Good night. SH_

***

"She's his wife. Margret," Sherlock said.

"Did you know he's married?"

"No. His personnel file doesn't mention his marital status, he doesn't wear any rings as a masseur and he never said anything."

"That's odd."

"They took me back to their flat. Both of them flirted rather heavily with me."

"Maybe they're looking for someone for a threesome," John said.

"Maybe? Obviously!"

"Did they touch you?"

Sherlock avoided John's eye and kept walking. They'd stopped on their circuit through the Rosenfeld Centre's park. It was the best way for them to talk without anyone overhearing.

"I put the brakes on and asked for a rain check," Sherlock conceded. "After all, I'm in therapy. They understood."

"Are they killing people together?"

Sherlock considered that for a moment. He'd clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the gravel path in front of him, lost in thought. "That would explain why there were no signs of a struggle. The victims were distracted by one person and killed by the other."

"The victims must have known the couple and trusted them, otherwise they wouldn't have let them do anything. So we have to assume that the sexual contact was already established by the time of the murder."

"Yes, that makes sense," Sherlock said.

"Why do they seek out gay men with sexual problems? Is there a motive in there somewhere?"

"Maybe they believe they're on a mission, or enacting some kind of deluded healing measures. Margret is also a therapist. She works with women in a Christian institution."

"What are you going to do now? They're going to want to initiate sexual contact with you. Maybe as part of some therapy."

"That's quite likely, in fact. It's the simplest method. Both of them are accredited therapists."

"Dave massages you three times a week and supervises your relaxation baths. He'll start there."

"I assume so."

"What are you going to do?"

"Keep on with it."

"No, Sherlock."

"John, this is our lead!"

"No." John stopped in his tracks.

"Why not?"

"You belong to me," John said, shocking himself as he heard the words come out of his mouth.

The pale, sea-blue eyes widened in astonishment. John maintained the eye contact. His heart pounded in his chest. He hadn't planned to say that, it had slipped out before he'd had a chance to think. It was the truth. It was what he wanted. His ultimate goal. Sherlock swallowed. He took a breath, opened his mouth, about to say something, but nothing came out; instead he swallowed again, hard, swallowed down whatever it was. They looked into each other's eyes. A long time. John stood by his words. They'd been said, and he stood by them. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, straightforward and direct. Sherlock's expression became softer, more agreeable. The blue slowly filled with deep affection. Warmth between them, creating space for itself. Understanding each other. _We both know how things really are between us. - Do you know that? Do you know how things really are between us?_

"We..." Sherlock began, halting and uncertain, "we need to solve the case."

"No. We don't."

"I WANT to solve the case," Sherlock corrected himself.

"That's different," John said. "Then it's YOUR responsibility. Watch out what you sacrifice for it."

John spoke quietly, then turned around and left, walked back up the path to the main building and left Sherlock standing there. Changes were happening. Quietly, in the background. Dr Kenny had spoken to him in private. _You've left your partner, Dr Watson. But you're sending mixed signals. Are you aware of that?_ Yes, damn it! He was well aware of it. He couldn't play this role. He couldn't pretend he'd left Sherlock. It wasn't true. _I'd like to initiate couples therapy. But I need your consent and cooperation._

"I'm prepared to do anything for Sherlock," John had said.

"The purpose of the therapy will change. We'll work on your relationship. But I need a clear yes to your partner from you."

"What does Sherlock think?"

"He can't imagine life without you."

"That means he agrees."

"I didn't ask him and I'm not going to. He never had any other purpose than to be with you. YOU left him. YOU need to be willing to give up your solution and find a new path together with him. It's your decision."

John had asked for some time to think about it. He and Sherlock would have more mutual therapy sessions and work together closely. That would make it possible for him to receive more information and protect Sherlock better. But it would also endanger the case. They wouldn't be able to maintain their roles and it wasn't clear whether Dave would still be interested in a Sherlock who hadn't been walked out on. On the other hand, it had worked well enough so far, at least as far as Sherlock was concerned. Slit wrists were apparently convincing enough. And if you really thought about it, it really only depended on Sherlock. John's role was already done with, no longer relevant. He was nothing more than an extra at this point, one whom Sherlock had been lying to his masseur about the whole time. Sherlock had never actually been rejected. What would happen if they changed the goal of the therapy? Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice. He was too preoccupied with his case.

John went to Dr Kenny and said, "I agree as long as you don't state explicitly that it's couples therapy."

Dr Kenny laughed. "What are you afraid of, Dr Watson?"

"My partner's reaction. He'll think way too much about what this change might mean instead of going along with things. Believe me. I know him."

Dr Kenny had still laughed. "Don't worry. We're only changing the goal of the therapy. The methods and the means are the same, with a couple of small exceptions."

***

The picture drew John in as if by magic. It was unconventional. Large format. At least a metre and a half wide by one metre tall. A very large scale for a collage with crayon. It hung in Sherlock's room at the clinic. The initial impression it made was blue, misty, cool. But if you went closer and looked more carefully, there was a myriad of colours. Various blues, greens, whites, violets, reds, yellows, oranges. Wax crayons. Layer upon layer. Striking textures, broad strokes, as if someone had wielded the crayons boldly, with sweeping gestures up and down, back and forth in all directions, chaos superimposed on chaos. And yet there were small spaces densely filled with short, heavy lines as if someone had wanted to bury something there, cover it up, erase it. Beneath the layers of crayon, the collage shimmered through from underneath, sometimes close to the surface, sometimes buried deep beneath the colours. It was even possible to make out a few letters.

When he stood a little closer, he could see the hot red in the background, concentrated in the lower left corner, from where it struck out in all directions, tossing black-red specks of lava that were swallowed up by the dominant cool tones. Pictures and letters cut from newspapers glinted across the surface of the entire piece. As if being viewed through a thick veil. People, houses, animals, cars. Here and there an unexpected flash of yellow. Orange waves in the background. John stepped even closer. A white-red band zig-zagged through the entire picture, sometimes easily visible on the surface, sometimes disappearing beneath the layers of crayon. Single symbols and letters. The formula for H2O. Capital letters, scattered about. L. H. M. I. R. A series of symbols on the right edge behind a field of white. A text. It shone faintly through the thick layer of crayon, barely legible. John moved in, concentrated on it and read:

_take my hand and lead me_

And offset, a little further down:

_quiet my heart in thee_

The text reminded John of a church hymn, maybe that had been the inspiration. It touched him, made his heart grow warm and its pulse strong. The longing in the words. Longing for surrender. John worked his way further into the picture, paying attention to the many hidden details. A rich, multifaceted world hidden beneath a layer of wax, impenetrable in some places, permeable in others. A dog. A couple making love. An erect penis. Black birds flying away. Children playing. A knife. A child crying. A pack of condoms. Flowers. A spider. Mice. A tree. A skull. An anatomical drawing of a bee. A house number. John started. Beneath the wax crayon, the number 221B gleamed through.

"Dr Watson? If you'd follow me please."

Dr Kenny's assistant stood at the door. John tore himself away from the picture, unsure whether it really said 221B. He went to the door, his mind in disarray. When he turned around again to glance one last time at the collage, the blood ran cold in his veins. His knees turned to jelly and he had to cling to the door frame for a moment. Across the entire length of the picture, from one side to the other like a shadow, barely visible even from a distance, stood in giant letters: JOHN.

"Art therapy," the assistant said. "Your partner worked really hard on it. We could barely drag him out of the studio."


	7. Private Touches

"I don't want couples therapy! John, that sends the signal that we want to stay together!"

"Don't we want that?"

"No! You've walked out on me! That's the role. I'm desperate, don't you get it? I slit my wrists because of you. Dave fell for it hook, line and sinker. How am I supposed to explain couples therapy to him now?"

"Don't tell him."

"He'll find out; John. Damn it! I was counting on you."

Sherlock prowled around the room. John ignored him. 

"I can't be convincing enough to pretend I want to leave you, Sherlock. Dr Kenny saw right through me. Let's do it the way she suggests."

"What about the case? We have a case, John!"

Sherlock slammed his fist against the window sill. He stared out at the park. Seething.

John remained calm. He hadn't considered Mycroft. Next of kin and official contact for the clinic. Of course they'd informed him of the change. _Thank you, John. I believe couples therapy is the best solution._ And of course Mycroft had also spoken to Sherlock. He visited him every other day.

"All right, so I broke character," John admitted. "I told Dr Kenny I wanted to go back to you and I was willing to work on it. Things like that can happen during these treatments, can't they? Dave will be familiar with it. So let's find a reasonable solution."

"What?" Sherlock grumbled.

"You modify your role. We'll do the couples therapy but you tell Dave you hate it, that you don't really want me back."

Sherlock exhaled forcefully and turned around. His eyes were flashing.

"I've communicated on every thinkable level that I have one single, desperate goal: you, John. I can't suddenly claim I don't want you anymore. It would be unrealistic."

Sherlock fell silent. A long time. He looked out the window again, seemed to be thinking. Then he said, more quietly: "I need you as a focal point, John. As long as I can orientate myself on you, I'm strong enough to get involved with Dave. I'm stuck here inside this bloody nuthouse. They take me apart every single day, right down to the marrow in my bones. I can pretend at desperation because you've left me. I can get worked up over the idea and truly suffer. It's effective. But I can't pretend I don't want you. Don't you get it? Here, look at this picture!" Sherlock gestured limply at the picture he'd made during therapy. "I can't just invent that. I need to be able to count on you covering my back."

John looked at the picture with the name shining through all those layers, dominating everything else. His name. A surge of heat that he couldn't suppress. John inhaled deeply, closed his eyes for a moment. The truth in the background. It was unavoidable, couldn't be overridden. Not by him, and not by Sherlock. The realisation flowed through John, a wave of profound sentiment that suffused his entire being. John looked up and their gazes met. The severity in Sherlock's eyes had melted away, the blue gone soft. John hesitated a moment before giving in to his instincts, going to his friend and hugging him. Sherlock received him, embraced him in a way that took his breath away. Intimately, no resistance. Sherlock's body up close, a connection. John gasped when Sherlock opened his legs where he sat leaning back against the window sill, and John nestled in closer. Their proximity flooded John's body with heat. He let it happen. That was part of the truth. He desired Sherlock, and Sherlock knew that and felt it, and it was okay.

They stayed like that for a long time, standing at the window wrapped around each other. The lack of restraint was new. New and nice. When they finally let go, slowly, Sherlock's eyes were filled with emotion, his lips parted, his face heated. John ran both hands through Sherlock's dark hair, fascinated, and closed his eyes, bewitched, when Sherlock leaned over and kissed him. Sighing, soft and tender. John returned the kiss with feeling. He felt the fire in him and let it burn without pressuring Sherlock in any way. He also didn't protest when Sherlock broke it off and said, "We need to go down to the elm tree."

***

John had switched out some of his shifts at Bart's A&E, postponed others and cashed in his holiday and vacation days. He didn't tell Sherlock any of that, simply arranged things so he could be at the Rosenfeld Centre as often as possible. Dr Kenny had started to require his presence on a tight-knit schedule.

The bench beneath the elm tree. He and Sherlock needed to sit out their daily hour there. It was one of the assignments they had to complete as part of the couples therapy. To have that hour for each other, to be forced to be there for each other, no distractions, no other priorities... it was something they weren't used to.

"You were right," Sherlock said as they sat on the bench as dusk began to fall. "Dave didn't seem to care about the couples therapy."

"Does he know?"

"Yes. He asked me about it. I told him I didn't know whether I wanted to go back to you or not, but that I'd complete the treatment in order to figure it out."

"How did he react?"

"He didn't seem very interested. He's extended another invitation to me. They're celebrating some kind of Thanksgiving thing on Friday night."

"In August?"

"It's to celebrate the first cutting, the beginning of the harvest. He explained it all to me. It's something Celtic, apparently. They commemorate the need to kill something that was previously cared for."

John was alarmed. "Kill what was previously cared for? That sounds like a sacrifice. The beginning of the harvest. That's the end of the fertile period. Both men's genitals were amputated. Is it possible they were killed as part of some occult ritual? We're right on schedule for the murders, Sherlock."

"Hm. There were no signs of any occult rites on the bodies. It's still possible, of course."

"If they put the victims into some kind of trance they probably wouldn't fight back. That might explain why there are no signs of a struggle."

"Possibly. Or they volunteer. Ritual death rather than the suicide they were unable to complete. That's why they choose failed suicides. It would make sense."

"Why the sexual advances?"

"I don't know. To be able to get close to the men and tie them up maybe. Or the sexual act coincides with the ritual. The removal of the genitals would indicate something like that. Or maybe they're two completely separate things. Private interests that can be combined with the ceremony. We'll find out."

"You're not actually going?"

"Of course I'm going, John! If anything is going to happen, it will be there. Margret and Dave are involved in this Celtic Circle, a coven that celebrates Celtic festivals. They've invited me along, even though there hasn't been any intercourse yet. Maybe we're wrong about that. Or there simply wasn't enough time."

"But it's not off the table?"

John approached the topic with caution. He would rather have forgotten all about it. Looked away. It hurt. But there was also a desire to know. To know how far Sherlock went. To feel the pain and discern when it was enough. When it was too much. To get a sense of his own limits. And to deal with whatever consequences might arise.

"Dave is always proper during the massage sessions," Sherlock said neutrally. "He doesn't use the therapy to make passes at me. We were wrong about that. He's a professional. He doesn't initiate the crossing of any lines."

"How about you?"

"I try to maintain his interest. I've given him some wiggle room."

"How much wiggle room?" John asked.

"Not much," Sherlock said curtly, his tone of voice final. A clear sign that he didn't intend to get any more specific.

John tried to remain calm. It would be counterproductive to ask anything else right now, he knew that. And yet the situation with Dave was eating him up inside. He closed his eyes, tried to relax. His body had tied itself into a tight knot at the thought of what might happen during those massage sessions. That was no basis for productive communication. Minutes passed in which they sat next to each other, on the bench beneath the elm tree. Silence. John struggled with himself. He didn't continue until he felt calm enough to say the right thing, and then he spoke softly:

"Sherlock. It hurts me deeply, right down to the core, that you share physical intimacies with a strange man but not with me. Being close like that, in a sensual way, is a gift that creates a profound connection, one that we - you and I - should create together. I feel like it belongs to us. The two of us."

Sherlock's expression softened. A frown. 

"John," he said, confused, "my physical contact with Dave is purely professional."

John searched the pale, uncertain eyes. They were frank and sincere. 

"Can you differentiate the two?" John asked. "Professional touches versus private touches?"

Their eyes clung to each other, searching and intense. Sherlock nodded slowly and deliberately. 

"Oh yes," he whispered, his voice low, "oh yes, I can. Dave's hands massage and caress me, but they don't touch me. One look from you touches every part of me without the slightest contact with your skin. And when our skin does touch, I'm lost. That frightens me."

Sherlock's words were so unexpected that John felt dizzy. He stared into the pale eyes and immediately felt his become damp. He lowered his head, tried to shake off the shock. Was this Sherlock? John had never heard anything close to those words come out of his friend's mouth before. Was it possible to make up something like that? Was Sherlock lying in order to mollify him? _There are things he's earned your trust in,_ Dr Kenny had told him. _Take a chance, Dr. Watson. It will be a risk to trust him, but you only stand to gain._

Time passed. Sherlock's cool fingers felt their way into John's hand and held it fast.

"Don't worry about Dave," Sherlock said mildly. "I don't worry about Sholto anymore."

John smiled, but it was pained. "So we're back to that then," he said.

"Yes. We're back to that. But on a completely different level, you must admit," Sherlock replied.

John smiled faintly and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Is the Celtic festival just an excuse to lure you out of the the clinic?" he asked, in an attempt to get back to the facts.

"Yes and no. The Celtic Circle really does meet next Friday, and Dave and Margret will be there. They may simply be using the festival to get me away from the clinic. It didn't work out last time. They invited me back home with them, but Mycroft came that night and I had to cancel. It would have been to risky to turn Mycroft away. He's like a bloodhound. Once you let him pick up a scent, he'll find everything."

"Where is the celebration taking place?"

"They're meeting at Highgate Wood. But if I've understood correctly, the ceremony won't be held there, but at another site they haven't publicised yet."

"It's about time for us to bring Lestrade in," John said.

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. "We should warn him at any rate," he said. "I'll do that along with trying to find out where the celebration is being held. Maybe you can find out more about the Celtic Circle."

"I'll take care of it."

***

Sherlock's clear blue eyes were earnest. A light glowed in their depths.

"John." His voice very low, soft as satin. "John. I honour you. Your spirit. Your soul. Your body. I will be attentive and respectful in each of my thoughts and actions. This I promise you."

John gazed into Sherlock's eyes, so close to his. He was deeply touched. They were words of a ritual which Sherlock spoke. They were about to begin the nightly partner massage. _The night has a law unto itself,_ Dr Kenny had said. _The senses perceive things differently, the body reacts differently. We're going to make use of that._

Nora was assisting them, had been with them all afternoon and evening. They'd completed several tasks together, things they could only do as a pair. A combination of physical efforts, mental tests, and intuitive decision-making. Challenges that had been fun and which they had accomplished with flying colours. Nora had led them and observed. Afterwards, they'd discussed and analysed their interactions, who had made which contributions, and how their skills had complemented each other and led to a highly satisfactory result. John and Sherlock had grinned at each other. If there was one thing they did well, it was work together. 

After that, they'd showered, relaxed in the spa area of the clinic, and eaten a bite together. Two hours break and then the therapeutic bath. Nora had set it up for them then left them alone. The two of them, alone in the closed spa area. After hours. The hot thermal waters, two bathtubs right next to each other, the air steamy and aromatic with herbal essences. They lay dozing beside each other in their tubs, submerged in the hot water, utterly relaxed and at peace, their hands intertwined on the tiled wall between them.

_I will be attentive and respectful in each of my thoughts and actions._

John stretched out on the cushion, entranced by the words, by the dusky closeness of the room, the expanse of space covered with a soft towel. Scented oil dripped on his back, followed by Sherlock's warm hands. Slow. Serene. Nora's soft voice in the background, guiding Sherlock. John closed his eyes and enjoyed the callused hands, at first tentative then becoming more sure as they dug into his muscles, kneaded and relaxed them. Back and shoulders. 

Then John turned over and Sherlock massaged his arms and hands. An amazingly intimate experience. Their hands together, Sherlock clearly in command. The tenderness he showed. Sherlock massaged each of his fingers, the spaces in between. Every square centimetre. Deliberately, respectfully. Then his head and neck, legs and feet. His upper body. John relaxed, didn't allow anything to come between them. Neither shame nor distrust. At some point, Sherlock removed the thin towel covering his groin, with reverence, took his off as well. 

John turned onto his stomach and Sherlock massaged his whole body with long, broadly drawn strokes. His back. Then his front. John lay there as if in a trance, stretched to his full length, completely relaxed. Sherlock's hands came closer and closer to his erect penis, their long, slow caresses passing over it, touching it, before moving on. John accepted the strong arousal without doing anything for or against it. _Just let it all happen_ , he heard Nora say at some point, not knowing whether she was speaking to him or to Sherlock. It didn't matter. 

He stayed where he was, eyes closed, giving in, letting it happen, letting everything happen, trusting in Sherlock's hands. Sherlock's breath wafting over him time and again, heavy, deep. Sherlock's weight, rocking back and forth as he used it to regulate the pressure of his hands. A nocturnal agogic. His body dissolving in the sensual rhythm. His spirit bewitched. Scent. Breath. Heat. Sherlock taking John's penis in his hands, loving, caring, caressing and massaging it until an orgasm chased through John's entire body, utterly overwhelming him. 

Sherlock breathing. John lay there, spread out as if he were dead, his eyes closed, subjugated and shaken, not sure whether what he was experiencing was real, or whether he was dreaming. Sherlock slipped in beside him. John turned to his friend and put his arms around him. They cuddled together, naked, warm and oily. Sherlock's lips sought his, and they kissed deeply. Sherlock's breath hot and lustful, his kiss trembling, his eyes glassy. John gazed into them, deeply.

"Let me give you release," he requested, his voice low.

A brief flare of uncertainty in Sherlock's face. He didn't say anything, kept his eyes fixed on John's. John knew they were open, wide open, that he was revealing everything. When Sherlock spoke, it was no more than a halting whisper: 

"I don't know if it will work, John."

John ran his hand through Sherlock's dark curls, touched his lips lightly.

"Is Nora here?"

"She left some time ago."

"Will you let me try?"

They watched each other. Sherlock's expression still unsure.

"I honour you, Sherlock," John whispered, and he had never meant anything more sincerely than he did this, right now. "Your spirit, your soul, your body. I will be respectful in each of my thoughts and actions." And then he added, so low it could barely be heard: "This I promise you."

Sherlock's lips twitched. Then he nodded and John kissed those wonderful lips before him, sucked on them and nibbled them, demanding, keeping a close watch on the arousal that rushed through Sherlock's body as he let his hand wander on a gentle, careful journey. John rubbed massage oil between his hands while Sherlock turned onto his back, sighing, exposing his half-hard penis and nodding to him. 

John massaged, stroked, kissed, sucked and licked, became aware of his renewed arousal and transferred it to his partner. Sherlock moaned softly. John was stunned by the feeling that spread through him. He loved. He loved in a new and incomprehensible way. What they were doing was more intimate than anything he'd ever done before. It was unconditional. Everything else, everything, paled in comparison, became meaningless. At some point, Sherlock tugged at his hair and John stopped. Sherlock pulled him up to lie next to him, and they covered themselves with the nearby sheet and curled up in each other's arms. That was the only thing that mattered now.


	8. The Address Book

John woke up when something bit his ear. It hurt, and he was wide awake at once. It still took him a couple of seconds to understand what was happening. He was lying on the wide divan in the relaxation room on the lower level of the Rosenfeld Centre, it was dark, and Sherlock was clinging to him. Sherlock's hoarse, desperate gasps in his ear.

"John."

John turned over, turned toward Sherlock's hot, flailing body and pulled him close, firm and tight, pushed into Sherlock's uncoordinated movements, tried to hold on to him. Sherlock arched up in his arms, breathless, curled around him, against him, twisted and turned. John felt Sherlock's rock-hard cock rubbing against his body. Wild, dark hair, dampness, hot breath. An unexpectedly painful bite to his shoulder made John cry out softly.

"John," Sherlock panted, beside himself with arousal.

John struggled to breathe. Sherlock's unrestrained state promptly lit a fire in his body as well. He slid both hands into Sherlock's hair and held his head steady, searched his eyes. They were flung wide open, veiled, as if in a trance, and on the verge of panic. 

"Sherlock! What should I do?"

Sherlock groaned. He took John's hand, directed it downward to his groin, fevered and frantic. John stroked his friend's member, engorged as far as it could go. Sherlock moaned again, curled in on himself, dug his fingers into John's flesh.

"Yes," he whispered, "yes, please. Please, John."

John quickly spat into his hand, reached between Sherlock's legs, grasped the stiff organ in his hand without another thought, and started rubbing and stroking it. Sherlock writhed from one side to the other, clung to him, held on to him, ground against him, arched up and bit into John's neck with a strangled cry as his semen spilled over into John's hand. John held on to Sherlock. Just held him until he returned to his senses, relaxed, and his embrace became loose and tender. 

Sherlock's lips found John's and after an affectionate kiss, Sherlock simply fell asleep in John's arms. Everything had happened so fast, so dream-like, that John doubted Sherlock had even been awake for it.

***

"Do you want to talk about what happened in the relaxation room?" Dr Kenny asked next morning.

John and Sherlock exchanged a look. John knew that he for one did not want to discuss it; wasn't even able to. The bites on the crook of his neck stung, and the stinging ran down to his lap like an invisible thread of memory. He could still feel Sherlock on his body, clinging to him, blind with ecstasy, his teeth buried in his flesh. Even now. He couldn't even begin to process what had happened. It was too new, too recent, too unfathomable.

"I'd like to say something," Sherlock began, as if he'd been thinking.

He looked up at John. Then he said, soft but clear, "I want to be an equal partner to you. And I'd like you to accompany me on the path to that goal."

John's first thought was to answer: _You ARE an equal partner._ But then he realised that wasn't really true. That he wouldn't be taking Sherlock seriously with an answer like that, that he would be ignoring what Sherlock was really saying and sweeping the real issues under the rug. John, still under the influence of and ensnared by what had happened during the night, said instead what seemed to him to be the most relevant and salient point at the moment: "I love you, Sherlock."

It was quiet in the room for several long moments. It felt strange to John, that he'd said that here, during their therapy hour, in front of Dr Kenny. But it was the only thing he could think of after that night, a night in which so much more had happened than he was able to comprehend. John felt as if he'd been soaked through and softened up. Eroded. Unstable. Worked over to the point of pain, both physically and emotionally. When he noticed that he hadn't actually given Sherlock an answer, he added, feeling adrift: "Of course I'll stay with you. We'll walk that path together."

***

John carefully slid the thin lockpick into the top of the lock and jiggled it a little. It caught. He moved the second slender pick up from the bottom of the lock and tried it. Nothing. Wrong pick. He took the next one out of the leather case and inserted it into the old-fashioned lock. Click. It snapped open. Sherlock's housebreaking tools always worked. John had retrieved them from Baker Street.

Dave and Margret Dallenport's place wasn't fancy. John took a look around first, not touching anything. Both of them - Dave and Margret - were at work all day. It had been easy to get the information. Dave's schedule hung in the clinic, and John also knew where Margret worked and had checked the website for when she offered treatments. John was determined to find some clues. Anything that indicated the couple was participating in occult rituals. Any literature along those lines, ritual objects, pictures. Maybe even the murder weapon. 

The three-and-a-half-room flat looked normal at first glance. Tidy. The usual couch and armchairs in the living room, a television. Nothing unusual. A large bed in the bedroom, covered with a white throw. A set of erotic pictures on the wall. Nudes of men and women. Black and white. Tasteful, John had to admit. He opened the drawer of the nightstand. Handkerchiefs, tissues, lube, vibrator, butt plug, cock ring, several dildos. Ah-ha. That was a yes, then. Toys. Well, that wasn't illegal. John took a picture with his phone anyway. If their suspicions about Dave and Margret should be substantiated in any way, he'd turn the photos over to Lestrade as evidence.

John went to the closet and opened it. A couple of long robes on the left side drew his interest. Two simple, long, black mantles, apparently for Dave and Margret. Soft, draped material. Two more robes in white. A fire-red dress, apparently for a woman. Ritual clothing items? They hung neatly on their hangers. John examined them, smelled them. Nothing suspicious. They'd been washed. John went through the cupboards and took pictures of anything that seemed interesting, then closed the cupboards again, making sure not to leave any traces behind.

The bookcase in the study was filled with texts on massage and physical therapy. Several books on sexuality. Literature on the Celts and solstice festivals. A book on rituals. John carefully removed it from the shelf and leafed through it. Harmless solstice rites for everyday use. A pile of newspapers. _The Celtic Circle_. A monthly periodical. John skimmed through it. Now that didn't look quite so harmless anymore. 

Speculation on ritualistic Celtic festivals. Magical tracings and ornaments. Photographs of archaeological finds. Brooches. Needles. Daggers. Bones. On the next shelf down was something covered in a cloth. John cautiously unwrapped it. It was an incense burner. Used, apparently, but cleaned afterwards. It held cloth sacks with herbs and resins. John took pictures, wrapped the vessel back up in the cloth and put it back. The computer was password-protected. Of course. What else had he expected. John rummaged around in the desk and the surrounding area, looking for clues to the password, checked the filing trays. Nothing. Not a chance.

A bag of herbs hung in one corner of the kitchen. Self-picked, apparently. A butcher block with knives of all sizes. It was unlikely that the murder weapon was there, but John took pictures anyway. He'd hoped there would be more, better and clearer clues. When he closed the door to the flat behind him half an hour later and left the house, he was a little disappointed. 

Just as he'd been disappointed by the Celtic Circle's website. There wasn't much information. An introduction describing the cultural heritage of the Celts, an overview of historical finds, a description of the best-known cultic sites, a few paragraphs and pictures of solstice celebrations, including the festival of the first cutting: _At the beginning of August, when his power is greatest, Lughnasadh, the sun and grain god, sacrifices himself. He dies knowing he will burn his own fruits if he does not submit._ No concrete indications as to any rituals, dates or places. 

But John held a trump card in his hand: the address book he'd found by the telephone. He'd taken pictures of it. Every single page. He was sure it would shed some light on the case. He wanted to talk to Lestrade and show him what he'd found. Maybe the names and addresses would provide some connection to the two murder victims.

***

The occupants of Scotland Yard were more reserved than usual. Carter just gave John a brief wave before promptly disappearing, apparently quite busy. Somehow none of the officers really seemed to notice John as he walked into the open-plan office. They avoided him, didn't have any time. Donovan looked up briefly from the report she was typing and greeted John by saying, "I didn't think we'd be seeing any more of you, doctor. Now that you're shot of the freak."

It was then that it dawned on John that everyone thought he'd left Sherlock. They were probably embarrassed for him that he was showing his face. Even Lestrade was more sober than usual when he welcomed John with a firm handshake. Everything was different without Sherlock. He usually stormed into the Yard and started talking as soon as they entered the office space, their discussions and arguments taking place in front of the entire team. Sherlock knew no shame and had no manners in that respect, and Lestrade went along with it. But now John was alone, and Lestrade was noticeably cooler than usual.

"Have a seat, John," he said, indicating a chair next to his desk. "How's Sherlock?"

"Good," John said. "He's pretty busy with all the different therapies, doesn't leave much time for anything else. But he seems to be making good progress."

"Do you still see him?"

"Yeah, I visit him regularly." John decided not to say anything about the couples therapy.

"How about you, John? Where are you living now? I hear you're not on Baker Street anymore."

"No. I've taken a room at a guesthouse on Lanark Road. Just temporarily."

"Are you going to stay in London?"

"Of course. No question there."

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said thoughtfully, "about you and Sherlock. I thought... well, I thought you were in it together for the long haul. After all the two of you have been through together. And you know, it's not that easy for me either. I mean, our work together was outstanding. You were a great team. I reckon life's not always what we expect."

Lestrade waved his hand in resignation and smiled sadly. John didn't know whether the DI was playing this game because they were in the open office where everyone was able to listen in - and was doing so. It had suddenly become very quiet in the room. John could virtually hear all the ears pricking to attention. Or was something else going on? Did Lestrade really not know about Sherlock's mission? Had Sherlock not informed him? John had assumed all along that Lestrade knew about it. But now he wasn't sure. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had gone off on his own to investigate something and not included the Yard until he had results.

"Can I speak to you in private, Inspector?" John asked.

"Sure." Lestrade led John into a conference room. "What can I do for you, John?"

"It's about the Lowe case," John said. "I don't know if you've been informed."

"The Lowe case?" Lestrade gave John a searching look, somewhat sceptical. "Of course I know about the Lowe case! That's those two murders, both men. They cut off their bits. Not very pretty. You don't forget a sight like that, even as a hardened cop."

"I have some documents that might interest you."

John spread out the photographs he'd printed of Dave's address book on the table. Lestrade reached for them, intrigued, studying the names.

"What's this?" he asked.

"The address book of Dave and Margret Dallenport. They're both members of the Celtic Circle, which carries out some odd ceremonies. The next one'll be this Friday. They're meeting in Highgate Wood."

"Huh. Interesting. Where'd you get the address book from?"

John decided to lie, since breaking and entering was still a crime. And so he gave the evasive answer: "Let's just say I had an opportunity and used it."

"Inspector!" The door to the conference room was flung open and an excited officer stuck his head in. "We've got a hot line on the ritual murders. It's critical! Quick, come on!"

Lestrade jumped up. "I'm coming!" Then to John: "Sorry, John, I've got to go. We're hot on the trail of a pretty nasty affair. I'll call you."

"These addresses are connected to the ritual murders!" John insisted.

He'd sprung up too, gathered up the pages and held them out to Lestrade.

"Right, thanks!" the Inspector said, shoved the documents into his pocket and rushed out the door.

"Greg!" John called after him. "You know Sherlock's at the Rosenfeld Centre..."

"Yeah, I know, I know! I'll call you!"

Lestrade ran off. John considered running after him and joining the officers. But then he decided to let Lestrade and his people do their job. He'd done his part and would continue to do so, together with Sherlock. It was comforting to know that Lestrade had a good lead anyway, and was going out on a call. Maybe the perpetrators would be caught and arrested. Then there would be no need for Sherlock to go to that weird ritual thing on Friday and put himself in danger.


	9. Nora's Night

"Can you stay here tonight?" Sherlock asked. 

"Is that allowed?" John asked. "I mean, you are in rehab here."

"I've asked Nora if she could work with us again tonight. She agreed if it's all right with you. She's already spoken to Dr Kenny. She gave her permission on the condition that I feel up to it. Nora is the sex therapist."

John took a good look at Sherlock as he sat there slumped on the chair in his room, talking quickly, his voice a monotone. He looked exhausted and pale. His eyes were red. He'd been crying.

"You look terrible, Sherlock. What happened to you?" John asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Sherlock had barely greeted him, hadn't even stood up, just glanced up briefly and asked immediately if he could stay over. He looked as if he'd been through the wringer. It was … not good.

"Psychotherapy," Sherlock said quietly. "It was hard today. Harder than I expected."

He swallowed, and John was afraid for a moment that he was starting to cry again. But Sherlock only lifted his head and looked at John with reddened eyes.

"It was hell, to be perfectly honest," he said flatly. "They dig everything up, you see. Everything."

John nodded. Then he said, worried, "I don't know if it's a good idea to work with Nora when you're like this."

"It's Thursday, John. We don't know what will happen tomorrow night. It may all be over then."

John sat down on the bed, stunned. "No, Sherlock," he said firmly. "If anything's over it will be the case. Nothing else. I'll make sure of it. I'm not leaving you alone. I'll blow our cover as a last resort."

"No!" Sherlock almost shouted the word. "We've invested so much and we're so close to our objective, John. You can't interfere now. Please. Please, John."

John fell silent. He'd wanted to tell Sherlock everything, that he'd been in Dave's flat and talked to Lestrade, given him the address book. That Lestrade was tracking down a fresh lead. But considering Sherlock's condition and his almost panicky reaction, he decided not to say anything for the time being. Maybe everything would have worked itself out by tomorrow.

"Should we go down to the elm tree?" John asked.

"Yes. Yes." Sherlock stood up, unsteady, and looked for his suit jacket. He still wore suits, even in the clinic.

As they walked along the corridor a few minutes later on the way to the park, they ran into Dave unexpectedly. He was just coming out of a treatment room, white uniform trousers, t-shirt, headed down the hall towards them.

"Hello, Sherlock!" he said, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he passed. "You're coming tomorrow night, aren't you?"

Sherlock and John stopped. 

"Dave?" Sherlock said hesitantly. "This is John."

Dave stopped too and walked back the two steps he'd already taken, held out his hand to John.

"Dave Dallenport," he introduced himself, handshake firm. "Sorry for rushing past and not stopping to talk. I'm in a bit of a clinch for time. You're John Watson, Sherlock's partner, aren't you? Nice to meet you. I'm Sherlock's physical therapist."

John squeezed the muscular hand and met the dark, smiling eyes. Dave seemed friendly up close. His brown hair neatly trimmed, beard well cared for, slim, fit body.

"If you'd like to accompany Sherlock tomorrow evening, you're more than welcome of course. Sherlock's probably told you about our festivities. It'd be nice to have you."

"Thanks for the invitation," John said, maintaining his presence of mind. "I'll have to see if I can make it. Probably not."

"No problem. Maybe next time. See you tomorrow, Sherlock. Have a good day!"

Dave hurried off. Sherlock's incredulous gaze brushed over John's. John took Sherlock's arm and pulled him further down the hall. They both needed a few seconds to recover from what had just happened.

"Dave invited you!" whispered Sherlock, nonplussed.

"Seems so. Let's discuss whether I should accept the invitation or not."

Sherlock had stopped again. Apparently the short exchange had confused him so much that he didn't know up from down anymore. He stared off into the distance. John tugged at his arm.

"Come on. The elm tree's waiting."

"John. Something's wrong."

"Maybe so. Let's talk about it outside."

***

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the bench.

"Sit down, Sherlock."

"No, no. Something's wrong, John. But what? Something doesn't add up. It can't be. Why did he invite you?"

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air, huffed, and walked back and forth, to and fro.

"Sherlock. Please. You're making me nervous. Come on, sit down."

"I can't sit now. I need to think!"

Sherlock continued pacing. John closed his eyes and tried to relax. Dave had invited him to the Celtic festival celebrating the first cutting tomorrow night. John didn't know what to make of it. On the one hand, it would allow him to be with Sherlock, but on the other hand Sherlock's role as the victim would be ruined - if it hadn't already been. At the latest when they'd started the couples therapy. Had Sherlock's plan failed? Or was Sherlock wrong? Was he on the wrong trail?

"Sherlock. Does Dr Kenny know that you're leaving the grounds to go swimming with Dave and Margret or to go to their place or celebrate Celtic holidays?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "I never went to their place," he said, miffed.

John ignored that. "How do you get back into the clinic when you've been out in the evening?" he asked.

"With a key card. Dave always got me one. Dr Kenny has to sign off on it when I leave the grounds. Dave always got her okay. He's a therapist and is allowed to work with patients off-site, he just needs permission from the doctor in charge of treatment."

"And that wasn't a problem to get."

"Apparently not. What are you getting at?"

"Have you ever checked whether Dr Kenny really allowed it, or whether Dave just said she had?"

"No. Why should I? I got what I wanted."

"Are you sure Dave's the right contact and there's not someone else behind it all?"

"No," Sherlock said, annoyed. "No, I'm not sure. But even if Dave and Margret aren't the murderers themselves, they'll lead us to the killer. I'm sure of it. That's why you cannot come with me tomorrow night, John. Even if Dave's invited you. No matter who the attacker turns out to be: I need to be alone, I have to remain a potential victim. I don't know what's got into Dave. He knows perfectly well that you're not coming."

"How does he know that?"

"He knows I don't want you there."

"Oh? And so he just assumes I'll listen to you."

"I don't know what he assumes, John. I really don't."

Sherlock sounded irritated, worked up. He was pacing in front of the bench again. Nervous and agitated. 

"Sherlock." John tried to stay calm. "Come on, sit down. What happened today with Dr Kenny?"

Sherlock sat down abruptly next to John, let himself drop heavily onto the seat, leaning against the back of the bench.

"She completely picked me apart," he said quietly, more to himself than John.

"That's her job, Sherlock."

"She picked at me until I broke down," Sherlock clarified. "Total crash. Hysterics. Crying jag. Collapse. Then emptiness. A terrible, bottomless, excruciating emptiness."

John fell silent, shocked. Sherlock had emphasised each word. Now he stared off into the distance, his thoughts seeming to drift far afield. John observed him, deeply concerned. Moments before, Sherlock had been upset, pacing around, and now it was as if someone had pulled the plug. All of his energy drained out of him, and along with it the blood from his face and the tension from his body. 

John hesitated. Then he felt for Sherlock's hand, touched it timidly. Sherlock turned his head. His pale eyes flickered uncertainly. He withdrew his fingers from beneath John's hand, slow and hesitant, before saying in a halting voice, "Please, John. I'd prefer not to touch you now."

John swallowed. That was unexpected. And painful. And horrible. John was thrown completely off-kilter by it. 

"Why?" he asked hoarsely as he took his hand back, confused and ashamed.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, agonised. He thought about it then said, "It wouldn't be honest. I'd prefer to stay within myself right now."

John felt disappointment rising in him. And fear. What had happened to Sherlock?

"What did they do with you, Sherlock? What was the psychotherapy about?"

It took a long time before Sherlock answered: "I can't talk about it. I'm sorry, John."

"Okay."

Silence fell between them for several long minutes. Sherlock's condition frightened John. Including the fact that he didn't want to be touched or talk about what had happened during the psychotherapy session.

"We should stop this investigation, Sherlock," he said cautiously, making an effort to sound reasonable. "The therapy's getting too deep. It has nothing to do with the role anymore. Look at yourself."

"I know."

"Let's just stop and go home."

Sherlock didn't speak for a long time. He seemed to be thinking, ran both hands tiredly over his face. Then he turned to John.

"Just until tomorrow, John. Just until tomorrow. We've put so much into this already."

"And if it's a false trail?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "It's the right trail. I'm sure of it. But I must have overlooked something. I simply don't know what."

"Were all of the victims patients of Dr Kenny?"

"No. Just Henry Munro, who was killed last year. Ferdinand Lowe was a patient of Dr Grantham. She doesn't work here anymore, she left shortly after Lowe's murder."

"Is Dr Kenny her successor?"

"No, she was already here."

"We should look at the patient records for Lowe and Munro, Sherlock."

"I already have."

"Then we'll look at them again. If you're right and the trail leads to this clinic, there must be some clue in there that you may have missed. Do you know how we can access the records?"

"Administration. In the main building."

"Fine. I'll stay here tonight and take care of it."

"Thank you, John."

***

The door to the administration office was open. It was shortly after 7 p.m., the cleaning crew was at work, must have left the door open. Perfect. John gave a friendly nod to the foreign-looking women who were dusting and hoovering and went straight to the filing cabinet. It was arranged alphabetically. Drawer L - for Lowe. Ferdinand Lowe. John went through the folders. Larson, Law, Lawrence, Leach. Lots of Leaches: Sandra, Herbert, Clea, Samantha, Sean, Philip, Mercury. Lewis. Lockhart. Lowe. Amanda Lowe, depression. Jeremy Lowe, bipolar disorder. Benjamin Lowe, post-traumatic behavioural disorder. Loomis. Luther. Ferdinand Lowe? There was no file for Ferdinand Lowe. Odd. 

John looked for Munro. Drawer M. No file for Henry Munro either. Had someone removed them? Did someone know they were investigating, had their cover been blown? Or had the officials from the Yard taken the victims' files as part of their investigation? Most likely. But documents like that were usually copied and the originals returned to the clinic. Or did the clinic keep the records of deceased patients somewhere else? Where had Sherlock seen them? John looked around. There was another filing cabinet, much smaller. Alphabetic again. John opened the drawer. They were the employees' personnel records.

"Might I ask what you're doing here?" a voice asked.

John whirled around. Dave stood in the doorway, a therapy chart in his hand.

"I wanted to have a look at Sherlock's patient record," John lied.

"You're looking at the personnel records," Dave said icily. "The ones fot the patients are over here."

He went to the filing cabinet with the patient records, opened a drawer, flipped through it quickly and put the chart in one of the folders.

"You have no right to see Sherlock's patient file," Dave said as he put the page in its place. He still sounded calm, but John could hear the tension in his voice. "You also have no right to be in this room. The sign clearly says it's for staff only."

"I'm a doctor," John said. "Sherlock's doctor."

"Then you need to request the information you need through official channels. Come on!"

Dave made a gesture with his hand that clearly indicated John should leave the room. John closed the drawer with the personnel records and left the office together with Dave.

"This is so far out of line, what you're doing here, John," Dave said once they were out in the corridor. They'd stopped walking. Dave's eyes sparkled with controlled rage. "You're not only betraying the trust of the centre, you're betraying your partner, and he's under our protection here as a patient. I'm going to have to report this to the centre heads."

John, determined to get away from there as quickly as possible, simply answered in a cool tone: "Yes, you do that. Good night."

***

Sherlock was sweating. The hair at the nape of his neck was damp. John ran his fingers through it, closed his hand around the curls and held them for a moment before combing through them again. 

"Is this all right for you?" Sherlock asked softly.

John looked into the extraordinary blue eyes, mere centimetres from his own. Sherlock's breath wafted across his face. He smelled like the drink they'd had, one which Nora had given them. _It will help you._ They lay naked beside each other on the divan in the relaxation room. Nora had guided them, guided them into this night together. To this point. Then she'd left.

John smiled. 

"It's incredibly beautiful," he whispered.

They had their legs intertwined, their lower bodies pressed close together. John could feel Sherlock's erection. His own, too. They pushed against each other, slid together when they breathed. Breathed the way Nora had shown them. Nothing else. Just breathing.

 _Let go of your preconceived notions of sexuality, John,_ Nora had said at some point during the preceding hours. _Let whatever comes to you, come._ The words, along with the laid-back atmosphere and his sharpened senses, had triggered something in John that he hadn't thought possible. He saw another Sherlock. He saw, deep within the pale eyes before him, another Sherlock. He felt him. Felt him throughout his body. As if something had made his skin permeable and Sherlock was seeping into him, diffusing throughout his body, everywhere, through every square centimetre of his skin. John had tossed every notion he had of sexuality to the four winds. Amazed at how simple it had been. All the women he'd penetrated. It had been so easy to let them go. To let go of something that had never really made him happy, that he might never really have understood or allowed. Sensuality.

John ran his hands slowly, possessively, through the hair at the base of Sherlock's skull. The curls, wet with perspiration, between his fingers. The dampness and heat. The smell of skin. Sherlock's lips parted. His pale eyes glazed over with a swell of arousal that rippled through his body. Sherlock's muscles tensed, he stretched in John's arms, his hardness pressed against John's. A single, small motion that precipitated a strong reaction with their close contact. John was overrun with a fiery desire. He felt the muscles of his lower body clench, his hips screaming to move, to grind, to thrust. But he forced himself to maintain the connection to Sherlock, even as that connection became tighter and harder with every contraction. Sherlock responded to it right away, gasping for air. A low moan arose from John. His fingers threaded through Sherlock's damp hair.

They waited, tried to relax. Looked into each other's eyes. They were breathing so fast now that it throbbed in their genitals like a pulse. John closed his eyes when the tip of Sherlock's tongue felt its way across his lips. His tongue was taut and probing, examining the line between John's lips, running over the inner edge. John let him do it for a while before carefully returning the pressure against his friend's tongue with his own. He was already dizzy with arousal when their tongues touched. Just a little, delicately. Probing, examining, testing. 

John was panting. He could barely control himself anymore. The bracket of their legs was so tight and hot that their genitals were slick with sweat. It was a surprisingly sensual feeling. Sherlock wasn't holding still anymore. He clenched his muscles in a steady rhythm, moved his hips, pressed against John, ground and moaned as the tip of his tongue played with John's. John couldn't stand it any longer. He pulled Sherlock's head closer and kissed him deeply. Sherlock's arms immediately wrapped themselves around him, held John close to him as their lower bodies separated a little with the heated motion, allowing more friction. 

Sherlock reached into John's hair, pushed him down onto his back, rolled onto him and began to thrust on top of him, moving his hips slowly as he held their cocks together with one hand. Sherlock groaned. His face was hot. His hair damp and tangled, his eyes unseeing with lust. He was as hard as a rock. John realised instantly that Sherlock was about to climax. That fact together with the confusing realisation that Sherlock's taking charge was driving him nearly insane, was enough to bring him to the same point. Sherlock stretched out on top of him moments later, dug his fingers into John's hair and kissed him with unexpected tenderness, then bit him on the neck as he ejaculated into John's lap with two long thrusts. John followed with a hoarse cry, a combination of the continued burning pain in his neck and the wet, warm, pulsating confines into which he thrust a couple more times before he thought he might pass out.

They held on to each other. Sweaty. Glowing. Breathless. Sherlock had released his bite, only grudgingly relinquishing John's flesh. John was drained, could hardly believe what had happened. A chasm had opened up before them. A satiny black, thrilling, intoxicating chasm of lust. He wanted Sherlock to take him. To conquer him. He wanted Sherlock self-assured, strong, purposeful. He wanted Sherlock to desire him and lose control, to bite him and make John his. That was what he longed for.

John turned onto his side and took Sherlock's face in his hands, still hot and fever-marked. He took it in his hands and kissed the wet, open lips deeply, enjoyed the way Sherlock returned those kisses so passionately. They slotted their legs together again, drew their damp, sticky bodies close together the way Nora had shown them, looked into each other's eyes. The blue of Sherlock's was deep and beautiful and glowed with a light that moved John profoundly.

"Sherlock," he whispered. "Sherlock, I want you to take me. Next time. Soon."


	10. In the Light of the Moon

The moon was full. One more thing to deal with. A cloudless, late summer's night sky spread out above Burnham Beeches. The pale disc hung large over the landscape, pouring milky light out across the fields, woods, and meadows, the path at John's feet a dun-coloured strip. John walked quickly. He heard the rhythmically undulating song, the drum accompaniment. The echo carried the sound to him. And he smelled the fire. 

John took the fork, following the beaten footpath through the woods. Sherlock had transmitted the coordinates of the ritual site to him by text. It was in the middle of the beech tree forest. Surreally glittering silvery light flickered between the trees, illuminating the forest floor, covered with leaves shimmering in the moonlight. Nothing else. A cavern of trees. Quiet. Eerie. Not a single animal moved. No breeze dared sweep through the pale leaves. Sherlock had estimated the number of participants at the ritual to be around forty. They had all traveled here together with a tour bus from Highgate Wood. John had followed in a taxi.

John walked resolutely. He had his gun with him. And he'd informed Lestrade without letting Sherlock know. Sherlock was oddly nervous concerning this case, and John was in a hurry to put an end to it all. At the same time, the previous night was stuck in his head, more than he could handle at the moment. John thought almost constantly about the tender, intimate experience; it made him pensive and at the same time filled him with irrepressible joy. He saw Sherlock differently now. He experienced him differently. It was as if he'd discovered and identified a second Sherlock hidden deep inside the one he'd known up to now. Maybe he'd made Sherlock's acquaintance now, truly got to know him for the first time. Maybe it was the first time he'd allowed the acquaintance. It was the first time he'd ever really set foot in the depths of his own sensuality and perceived the beauty lurking there. John knew that something important had happened, something that had to do with his inner self, and that would change him and his life. He'd wanted to sleep with Sherlock before, but it had been as if there were no common point of contact that he could have built on. After last night, there was one. It was different than John had expected. It was deeper and much more complex than anything he'd thought he knew about sexuality before. Neither of them, neither John nor Sherlock, had wanted to talk to Dr Kenny about it.

John hid behind a tree when he saw the clearing. The large fire burning on the field posed a strange contrast to the moon, which flooded the festival grounds with a cold light. John moved a little closer, cautiously, as the leaves under his feet rustled and might give him away. He needed to be careful. He could see people now. They were holding hands around the fire and walking in a circle as they sang. John tried to spot Sherlock, but it was too far away, the light too poor to recognise anyone. A glance at his phone. The coordinates were right. He'd passed them on to Lestrade. 

John pressed his front against the beech tree he was hiding behind, watching the goings-on around the fire from behind the tree trunk. There was some kind of ritual taking place. One of the men threw something into the fire, making sparks fly high up into the sky. He was summoning some gods or spirits, the people bowed in all four directions. Then it was completely quiet for a long time, everyone stood there silently. The drum started up again, a slow, hollow rhythm, a husky pulse going out into the night. It went on for a while, then one person approached the fire, said something and tossed something in. Sparks sprayed out. Others followed, one after another, doing the same. John couldn't understand what they said, he was too far away. After that a goblet was passed around, from which the leader had first poured some of the contents into the fire and some more onto the ground, accompanied by an incantation. The people danced and sang again. 

The leader walked around the circle of dancers, singing a lament. The people fell silent after a while, moved away from the fire and knelt down. The leader lifted a vessel high up over his head and hurled it into the fire. A hissing sound. The fire smoked and steamed, threatened to go out. An eerie stillness fanned out through the clearing. The pungent, bitter-sweet smell of freshly burnt blood reached John's nose and set all of his senses on edge. He knew that smell well. All too well. Was it human blood? John wasn't sure. It must have been a large amount. Were they too late? Had there already been a victim? Had the leader thrown the amputated genitals of a man into the fire along with the blood? Where was Sherlock?

_Sherlock? Answer me. JW_

Fresh flames lashed out of the fire in the clearing, at first just a few, then more and more. It came to life again. The people sprang up, shouted for joy, hugged, threw herbs and wood on the fire, the smell changed. Sage, angelica, juniper. They danced in a circle and sang, the leader spoke some words in each of the cardinal directions. 

Then the ritual seemed to be over. The people split up, chatting now, laughing, sat in groups around the clearing. Containers and bottles were unpacked and passed around. It appeared that the actual party was getting started.

_Sherlock. Where are you? JW_

Damn it! Where was Sherlock? John wasn't sure whether he should march out into the clearing and look for Sherlock or alert Lestrade. But then a text arrived:

_Everything ok. Picnic. SH_

Thank God! John kept an eye out to see if he could recognise Sherlock, but it was useless. He decided to watch and wait.

A good hour went by. Nothing happened. The people ate, drank, and talked. The fire got smaller and smaller. Some of the people started to leave, came down the footpath with torches. John moved a couple of trees further away to stay hidden.

_Going swimming. Upper Pond. SH_

Upper Pond. That was quite close by. A couple of people were putting the fire out now, separating the coals, pouring water over them, dumping dirt on top and then laying something over it all that John couldn't make out. Most of them came in groups down the footpath now. The route to Upper Pond led in the other direction. John waited. He didn't set out until it was completely quiet on the ritual grounds. He walked through the woods, navigating with his phone.

The pond lay as if poured into the space between some trees, covered with hundreds of white water lilies. The blossoms had closed up, leaving only their white tips shimmering in the moonlight. Upper Pond wasn't an official swimming pond; in fact, swimming was actually forbidden here. On the northern end - free of lilies - people swam in the dark water. There were five or six of them. So it wasn't just Dave and Margret and Sherlock. Whispers and soft laughter. John went closer, peering keenly between the trees, just as a text arrived on his phone from Lestrade.

_Raid at Burnham Beeches, south Middle Pond. Greg_

Middle Pond? That was wrong! He needed to...

_John, stop where you are! SH_

John was staring at the text from Sherlock when a voice whispered to him from a couple of metres away: "Come with me."

Sherlock stepped out from behind a tree, held out his hand to take John's, pulled him up to the footpath and walked a short way forward with him to the forest trail, no hurry, no ducking for cover, not letting go of John's hand.

"Sherlock, what is this? What happened?"

"Get in," Sherlock said in lieu of an answer.

Hidden behind some bushes stood a black vehicle, an unmarked car from the Yard with two officers inside. Sherlock opened the rear door and shuffled John onto the back seat. The driver started the engine, turned on the headlamps, manoeuvred out of the camouflage and drove off at a sedate pace along the track. He didn't seem in any particular hurry, nor did he appear to want to remain unseen.

"Sherlock. What is going on here?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. He was pale and grave and looked exhausted.

"It's all over," he said softly.

"Sherlock! Where are we going?"

"The south shore of Middle Pond."

***

It was only about 300 metres to the southern end of the middle pond, they could see the blue lights of the Yard practically as soon as they set off. They flashed silently in the branches of the beech trees. The driver stopped when an officer blocked the trail so another one could stretch a piece of white and red tape across it. Sherlock got out of the car and nodded at John. The officers recognised them and let them through. They walked a few steps to the assemblage of police cars and ambulance, blue lights blinking. Lestrade came over, smiling.

"Sherlock, John. We got the Lowe killer! You were right, Sherlock. It worked. This is Luke Corcoran, by the way. Our undercover hero."

Lestrade waved at an extremely good-looking but pale young man leaning on the bonnet of one of the police cars, a woollen blanket over his shoulders, drinking a cola. 

"He was able to bewitch the murderer. A months-long operation under the most difficult conditions imaginable. Excellent work."

Lestrade slapped the young man on the shoulder in praise, but he only rolled his eyes. He looked exhausted and didn't say anything. John took a good look at him. Tired, red eyes glanced over briefly before quickly looking away. John could only guess at what the young man had been through. He must have pretended he was in love with a murderer for weeks, courted him. Who knew with what methods, and at what cost.

"And your contact with the Celtic Circle and the tip with Burnham Beeches was worth its weight in gold, Sherlock. Thanks!"

Lestrade was clearly pleased.

"Steven Berting?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, it was him. Just like you thought."

Lestrade tilted his chin in the direction where two police officers were helping the killer into a car. He was powerfully built, older, his hands handcuffed behind his back and covered in mud from head to toe.

"We practically caught him red-handed, took the murder weapon right out of his hands. He's not going to get his neck out of this one."

Lestrade's eyes flicked from Sherlock to John and back again. "And you two? Everything good now?"

John grimaced. He had no idea what to think of it all.

"I was undercover in the clinic, I already told you, George. Everything was fine between me and John the whole time."

"Yeah, right," Greg said dismissively, giving John a closer look.

John thought it best not to let anything show. He coolly returned Lestrade's look, met his sceptical gaze and refrained from reminding Sherlock that the DI's name was Greg.

A half hour later, the evidence was all gathered. Sherlock and John went back to the car waiting on the other side of the barricade tape. Dave, Margret, and four other members of the Celtic Circle who had been swimming in Upper Pond were standing there, having been stopped by the police officers.

"What happened, Sherlock?" Dave asked. "All of a sudden there were police lights flashing and you were gone. We thought..."

"We solved the Lowe murder case," Sherlock said in a tone of voice that even John found arrogant.

"We?"

"John, myself, and the members of Scotland Yard."

Dave and Margret both looked confused. Dave's eyes sought out John's. John nodded in confirmation.

"I'm a consulting detective and was undercover in the clinic as part of the investigation," Sherlock said. "John never left me. It was all pretend."

Dave appeared shocked. 

Margret asked, "What does the Centre have to do with the murder?"

"It's complicated," Sherlock said. "In any event, my stay at Rosenfeld is hereby over."

"You're not coming back to the Centre?" Dave asked.

"No. John and I are going home."

"Sherlock, I'm responsible for you. It'll cost me my job if you don't spend the night at the Centre."

Sherlock's questioning gaze met John's.

"All right," John said. "Let's go back. We still have a few things to discuss anyway."

Sherlock turned to go, but Dave held him back by the arm.

"Sherlock. I want to know what this was all about. You'll need to explain everything tomorrow. Officially."

"Of course. We'll see you tomorrow at Rosenfeld. Officially. Come along, John."

***

The bed was really too narrow for two grown men. John lay on the outer edge. Sherlock had turned over and was asleep. The full moon had faded. Morning would be dawning soon. John lay awake. He didn't understand what had happened. His thoughts circled around all the things he'd gone through and experienced. Puzzle pieces that didn't fit together, didn't form a picture. 

_Tomorrow,_ Sherlock had said. _I'll explain everything to you tomorrow. Please, John._

They'd driven back to the clinic, sitting in the back of the unmarked police car, not speaking. Sherlock had closed his eyes and leaned back, tired. He'd evaded John's questions, put him off. Had finally felt for John's fingers at some point, careful and questioning. John had taken the cool hand in his and held it fast until they arrived at Rosenfeld.

They'd taken showers, then John had got into the narrow clinic bed with Sherlock. They'd lain there a long time in each other's arms, in the light of the moon shining through the wide-open window. 

John had eventually turned onto his back and Sherlock, his face hidden in John's neck, had shyly said, "Can I ask you something, John?"

"Of course."

"Do you think we'll stay together?"

"Yes."

"Do you love me? Truly?"

John had closed his eyes in surprise, taken a deep breath, filled with warmth and emotion and bewilderment. Then he'd turned his head, slid his fingers into Sherlock's hair, had felt Sherlock's breath on his lips and looked into those pale eyes.

"How can you even ask that, Sherlock?"

John had brushed Sherlock's mouth with his lips, tenderly.

"I don't know it for sure," Sherlock had whispered, uncertain, a warm puff of air on John's mouth.

John, aware of the seriousness of the statement, had answered, straightforward and honest: "Yes, I love you, Sherlock. I'm only starting to understand what that means. Thanks to the therapy here. Thanks to Nora. Thanks to everything that's happened."

Sherlock had pressed his face into John's neck briefly before falling asleep in John's arms. 

John had lain awake. Until now.


	11. The Crux of the Matter

Dr Melicia Kenny burst out laughing. A strand of her kinky grey hair had fallen out of the band she'd used to tie it together at the nape of her neck. The loose hair dangled in her face. Her green-blue eyes sparkled with uninhibited amusement and numerous creases appeared around her eyes.

"An undercover investigation?" she laughed.

Sherlock sat on his chair, waxen-faced. "What's so funny about that?" he asked in annoyance.

Dr Kenny laughed heartily. "Nothing," she said. "Everything's fine, Sherlock. I'd just like to speak to you in private, kind of an exit interview, before you leave the Centre."

"I don't think that's necessary," Sherlock said, now defiant.

"Have it your way. Then we'll officially end your treatment here." Dr Kenny picked up the folder with Sherlock's patient record and said, amused: "I'll make a note that it was an undercover mission so the file isn't valid as a patient record. Is that all right with you, Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, that's fine with me," Sherlock said stiffly.

Dr Kenny wrote something, then laid the folder on the table behind her. "I hereby declare you completely fit, not that you were ever ill, Mr Holmes. Everything that happened was only in the service of your undercover investigation. Good?"

Sherlock nodded.

"How about you, Dr Watson? How are you dealing with the fact that this was all just a set-up?" Dr Kenny asked, turning to John.

"I knew it all along," John said, irritated at the doctor's continued mirth. "I only made it look like I'd left Sherlock so he could check himself in and proceed with the investigation. Everything made sense to me all along."

"Everything? Okay. Good." Dr Kenny chuckled. Then she met Sherlock's eye and said, still cheerful: "Sherlock Holmes, I don't believe a single word out of your mouth. Not one single word."

"That's YOUR problem, not mine," Sherlock responded coolly and stood up, a sign that he considered the conversation over.

Dr Kenny nodded. She stood up as well and said, suddenly sober: "Let me give you some parting advice, Sherlock, whether you want to hear it or not: Don't play with love. Especially not the love of the person who belongs to you. Love is power. Take responsibility for it."

They stood facing each other, Dr Kenny and Sherlock Holmes, looking each other in the eye. Dr Kenny held out her hand to him. He hesitated a moment before grasping and shaking it.

"Thank you. Thank you for everything," he said.

"You're welcome."

Out in the corridor, John stopped short. He was all in a muddle, still didn't understand what was going on. The case had been solved, Sherlock was starting to communicate, but the pieces of the puzzle still didn't fit together.

"I don't get it, Sherlock," he said. "You were undercover here, conducting an investigation. But Dave had nothing to do with the murder and the Lowe case was solved by Lestrade. So what, exactly, were you investigating?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said quietly. He stood there in front of John, the blue of his eyes shifting.

"Nothing?"

"No. Nothing."

"NOTHING? What's that supposed to mean? You slit your wrists, Sherlock!"

"I know."

"Why?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Can we talk somewhere else, John?" he asked self-consciously.

"Under the elm tree?"

"Baker Street. But there's something else I need to do first."

Sherlock went down the corridor. John followed. They went into the physical therapy wing, Sherlock knocked on the door of massage room 2. The schedule on the door showed that Dave was inside. The very man opened the door. A scented cloud of massage oil.

"I'm in the middle of a massage!" Dave didn't hide the fact that he was irritated at the interruption.

"I wanted to say good-bye," Sherlock said.

"Just a second." Dave went back into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Should I leave?" John asked.

"No, stay."

The door opened again, Dave came out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. He'd apparently washed his hands, and was drying them now with a white towel.

"So," he said as he carefully dried the spaces between his fingers. He didn't look up. 

Sherlock seemed to be fishing for words. When he didn't say anything, Dave continued: "You were undercover here to investigate for a case."

"Yes. The case is solved. My presence is no longer necessary."

"Ah-ha," Dave said. The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. "And now you're taking off. Just from here or from mine and Margret's life too?" He looked up. His dark eyes were closed-off and dour.

"Both," Sherlock answered.

Dave took a deep breath. He looked down at the towel, twisted it in his hands. "Too bad," he said. His voice trembled.

"The man you came to know wasn't me," Sherlock said. "It was a role I was playing here."

"Okay."

They stood there in the corridor for several seconds, indecisive. Dave stared at the towel in his hands. Then he raised his head and looked into Sherlock's eyes. Just for a moment. John couldn't parse the look in those dark eyes. Disappointment, maybe, suppressed anger, sadness. Then Dave looked at John. They watched each other. Dave's gaze probing but free of suspicion. After a couple of heartbeats, Dave nodded, faint and pensive, turned around and went back into the massage room. Not a word. The door clicked shut behind him.

John stood there, stricken. His heart clenched. It hurt, what had happened here. He felt sorry for Dave. What had Sherlock done? And why? John wanted nothing more than to grab Sherlock and shake him, shout at him. But he stood there, frozen.

"Are you coming?"

Sherlock timidly touched John's arm. John went with him without another word. Something burbled and brooded inside him. Anger and jealousy, curiosity and fear held each other in check. He didn't dare ask about Dave. He would, though. Later. Not now. Right now it hurt too much.

***

"I want to know everything, Sherlock. Everything. Right away, now."

John was adamant. He'd sent away a ruffled Mrs Hudson, locked the door to their flat on Baker Street, made tea and forced Sherlock to sit down with him at the kitchen table. John was determined not to let Sherlock leave until everything had been said, until they had clarity. Clarity about everything that had happened. 

John knew it was the thing with Dave that made him hard and unforgiving. There was a thick knot in his gut, suppressed rage and disappointment. He hated being left out of things, not being informed, not knowing what was going on. He was sick and tired of being lied to. Enough was enough. Once and for all. Enough. Sherlock sat on the edge of the kitchen chair, his back stiff and ramrod straight, his hands folded in front of him. He looked insecure and doleful.

"I don't know where to start," Sherlock said.

"Just start somewhere. At the beginning. I want to know everything."

Sherlock thought for a few seconds. "I did some work on the Lowe case a year ago and discovered that Steven Berting was the killer. But there wasn't enough evidence for the case to go to trial. As a result, Lestrade sent Luke Corcoran after Berting. Luke fit Berting's victim profile."

"Was Luke with you at the Rosenfeld Centre?"

"No. Neither he nor the other victims were ever at the Rosenfeld Centre. That's why you didn't find any patient records."

"Sherlock! You said you'd looked at their records in the central administration archives."

"That wasn't true, John. I'm sorry I lied to you. It was part of my role."

Sherlock spoke quietly. John gave him a once-over and shook his head. "I don't understand. What role?"

"There was no investigation going on in the Rosenfeld Centre. Lestrade was working the Lowe case. The trail led to the gay scene and didn't have anything to do with Rosenfeld. Lestrade didn't need me. The whole undercover thing was fake."

"The undercover thing was fake?" John was at a loss. "I still don't get it. If you weren't investigating in the clinic... why did you check yourself in?"

"I was in therapy."

"Sorry, what?"

"I was in therapy, John."

John had been pacing back and forth next to the kitchen table, but now he sat down in shock. He swallowed hard, looked at Sherlock in horror. Sherlock's eyes flickered uncertainly.

"Are you mad?" John asked, aghast.

Sherlock lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, John," he said in a low voice. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

"You forced me to leave you! You slit your wrists, Sherlock!"

"I know. There was no other way."

John stood up again, walked back and forth a step or two. His head was buzzing. He was in over his head, had no idea what Sherlock was saying, couldn't believe it was true.

"I did it for us, John. For the two of us."

John shook his head in disbelief. "No," he said. "No! Sherlock. You could have just said if you needed therapy and had it set up for you. I want to know what the real point of this was, damn it!"

John banged his fist on the table, huffed angrily. Seconds passed. Sherlock sat there on his chair, chalky white, breathing heavily. John watched him for a while in silence. Then he said, more calmly, but with an icy growl lurking beneath his words: "I'm waiting for an explanation, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He seemed to be thinking. Finally, he said, "I found the card."

"What card?"

"In the pocket of your jacket. Tantric massage for couples."

"Found? You just 'find' a card in my jacket? What were you doing in there?"

"I was jealous over Sholto. I was afraid and I thought... I'm sorry, John. Truly. I let myself get carried away and as soon as I did I realised things couldn't go on like that. When I saw the card I knew there were only two options. Either you'd want me to share a massage like that with you. I couldn't have coped with that at all, it would have ended in disaster. Or you would go with someone else. That would have destroyed me. It was then that I knew I had to act."

"You showed me the Lowe file, where it said both victims were in the Rosenfeld Centre. How about that?"

"I manipulated the file. It was simple, John."

"Damn it, Sherlock! You forced me to leave you and you hurt yourself!"

"I had to move quickly. And I needed to involve you. As closely as possible. For both of us."

"Why? Why did it need to happen so fast? Why Rosenfeld?"

"I'd suspected all along based on the murder dates that the two Lowe murders had something to do with a Celtic holiday. I didn't know how, however. I remembered that a client had once mentioned in the course of a different case that there was a therapist at the Rosenfeld Centre who celebrated Celtic holidays. I thought I could sell it that way. As an undercover mission in the Rosenfeld Centre for the Lowe case. That was all ongoing and current. But there was a time factor. The celebration is always at the beginning of August."

It was still in the kitchen, simply still for a long time. John tried to calm down, to make some sense of things. He sat down next to Sherlock at the table, thinking, not looking at his friend. He picked up the teapot, poured tea into Sherlock's cup, then into his own, set the teapot back on the table and folded his hands in front of him.

"Go on," he commanded.

The whole thing was so monstrous that it felt as if he were in a daze. He'd given up any attempt at resistance, wanted noting more than to know and understand. To understand Sherlock.

"The crisis had to pertain to you, because the whole thing was about you. About us. As a suicide risk I would be admitted immediately and receive intensive treatments. It was a coincidence that Dave was assigned as my physical therapist, and I soon learned he was the one with the Celtic holidays. It was perfect. I could simply interrogate him during the massages, and I discovered that the murders always took place on the same night and in the same park where the Celtic Circle celebrated their rituals. I passed the data on to Lestrade. He verified them. The Celtic Circle always has to obtain a special permit from the park authorities in order to legally celebrate the festival of the first cutting without being disturbed. The murderer made use of that fact to celebrate his own cutting festival, so to speak. Steven Berting worked in administration at the Open Spaces Department and had no problem gaining access to the information. The Celtic Circle itself has nothing to do with the murders."

"What about Dave?" John asked. His mouth was dry, but he knew the moment had arrived to pose the question. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. He didn't answer right away. Finally, he said cautiously, "He was part of the therapy. He helped me understand my body. A private contact arose through my interest in the Celtic aspect that went beyond that. He and Margret extended invitations to me, likely assuming I would join the Circle."

Sherlock stopped talking. John didn't say anything. That wasn't what John had wanted to know, but he was hesitant to ask anything more specific. Sherlock knew perfectly well, knew exactly what they were talking about. John waited.

Sherlock eventually went on: "There was no sexual contact between me and Dave or Margret. There were a couple of erotic moments during the massage. Dave said it was fine. He never touched me intimately at the clinic."

"Why did you lie to me?" John asked. "You said they were making sexual advances to you as a couple."

"Outside of the clinic, privately, they did," Sherlock conceded. "But I put them off and they accepted that. That wasn't a lie."

It was quiet in the kitchen again. John exhaled in relief, but he was still confused about the backstory, which was so completely not what he had expected.

"Go on," he said after a while.

"I asked Dr Kenny for intense, hard-hitting therapy. My problem was that my stay at the clinic would end with the festival. She helped me quite a bit. I was able to work through lots of things. I was willing to do it. To do anything. I asked for the couples therapy and you agreed to it. I wasn't sure whether you'd go for it. But you did, even though I had to let you think you were endangering the investigation by doing so. You also agreed to the sex therapy together with Nora. Thank you, John."

"I learned a lot," John admitted.

The mood had become calmer, more pensive. Very pensive.

"It's not enough yet, John," Sherlock said quietly. "We'll have to have a few more sessions with Nora. She has a private practise. I've set up additional therapy sessions with her. If you agree."

John took a deep, shaky breath. The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together, falling into place in a rounded picture like a kaleidoscope. A picture that connected ever deeper with John, softening him up.

"Yes, of course I agree," he said lightly. After a couple of seconds, he added, "You lied to everyone, Sherlock. Our friends, your brother, Lestrade, the doctors, me. Why? Why the whole theatre? We could have just done the therapy."

They looked at each other.

"It would have taken months, John, before we were at the point we're at now. I would have needed a lot of time for the psychotherapy. That part would have been all right. But how would that have looked: Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Waton in sex and couples therapy. It would have come out at some point and we would have been made laughing-stocks. I'm not even sure you would have gone along with the therapy like that. The way it is now, everything's fine. It was done with quickly and it all stayed low-key. Everyone knows it was just an undercover mission, that our crisis was all a set-up, that you never left me. Even Lestrade thinks I did it for the Lowe case."

"And you think," John said, "that the ends justify the means."

"Don't you?"

"Why did you lie to me, Sherlock? Why did you pretend you needed to go undercover?"

"Would you have gone along with the plan if I hadn't?"

"No. I would not have gone along with faking an undercover investigation just to get some therapy," John admitted.

"That's why I couldn't clue you in. I'm asking you to forgive me for that, John. It was the hardest part, you know. I had to make you believe my breakdowns were all made up and I had everything under control. I know I didn't succeed in that."

"No, you didn't succeed there," John said. "I was scared for you."

The mood had become mellow and amiable. They sat together at the table. Sherlock drank his tea, which had gone cold by now. They looked each other in the eye. A long time.

"I was afraid of losing you, John. I was afraid before the treatment and then the whole time at Rosenfeld. So many things were changing. I wasn't sure whether our relationship could handle it. I wasn't sure of myself. I'm still scared. It's going to take a while before I can be a free, self-assured, partner to you. I'm going to need your help."

John gazed into the ice-blue eyes. Sherlock sat slumped down in his chair, defeated and tired. Drained by all the lies, confrontations, treatments, and fears.

John was both concerned and troubled. He slowly became aware of the fact that Sherlock had done everything for them. For the two of them. For him, John. Lied to all those people. Exposed himself to brutal therapy sessions. A pitched battle with himself, for what he was. Gone through all of that hoping to save their relationship. And under constant fear that everything would be ruined afterwards. A dangerous and painful game far beyond what might be considered normal. Wild, audacious, arrogant, desperate. 

"We'll start over, Sherlock," John said gently. "The two of us together. With new conditions, together with Nora. You've created the basis for it. You're a mad, presumptuous, foolhardy arse, you know that? And I'm afraid I love you more than ever."

Sherlock swallowed. His eyes became soft and warm, the blue expanding and darkening, opening to his friend's gaze.

"You're afraid?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid." And after a moment in which a timid smile snuck onto both men's faces, John asked: "When's the next session with Nora?"

"Tomorrow. Six p.m."


	12. Epilogue

"Wait."

Sherlock reached for John's tie, straightened it, fussed with the collar of the white shirt. His pale blue eyes shone in the light of the living room lamp.

"Am I pretty enough yet?" John teased.

Sherlock smiled. He looked fantastic in his dark suit. Elegant. Sherlock could wear whatever he wanted, he always looked stunning. Even in tighty-whities. Although John had never seen him in those. Granted.

"You can never be pretty enough for the woman who means your life to you," Sherlock said solemnly, only to smirk mischievously the next moment and add, "Although she's seen another side of you and isn't about to be fooled."

"Shut up!"

Sherlock laughed, free and bubbly. My God! How often had John heard him laugh like that? Perhaps a dozen times. A dozen times in their life together. More often recently. John studied the beautiful, carefree face in front of him.

"She's something special, John. And I'd like to do her the honour."

"You've made reservations in the most expensive restaurant in the city," John grumbled.

"The best one," Sherlock corrected him. "Price is no object in that case. Not for a queen."

"All right, all right, I get it."

***

Her pace was calm and smooth, lively but unhurried, as she entered the restaurant and approached their table, warm physicality and purposeful clarity unified in one. She wore a simple, dark wine-red dress that didn't exactly emphasise the curves of her body, but it also didn't hide them. She had a scarf of the same colour slung over her shoulder. Her reddish, slightly frizzy hair was loose, combed forward over one shoulder. 

Sherlock stood up and John followed suit. She was truly a queen, Sherlock was right. The way she came toward them, proud, erect, gracious. John smirked. Sherlock's adoration of Nora was both unfamiliar and touching. 

Nora kissed them both on the cheek, delicately, just a brush. She smelled faintly of warm resin. Sherlock pulled out a chair for her and Nora sat down, beaming widely. Her blue-green eyes shone with their ochre flecks. She looked so beautiful that it took John's breath away. She was older than John. He knew because he'd done some research on her. She didn't look her age. Especially not now, all fancied up. Although she wore barely any make-up, her fading summertime freckles showing through. John had only seen her in the context of their therapy sessions, in her uniform - white trousers and t-shirt, her hair plaited tightly.

"It's nice to see the two of you," she said affectionately. "Thank you for the invitation."

Even now, in private, she exuded a profound calmness, the same solemnity and happiness she conveyed during therapy.

"This is our way of thanking you," Sherlock said. "For everything you've done for us. It's so much more than you know. It's transformed our lives."

Nora looked into Sherlock's eyes, then John's. She smiled and said, her words soft and filled with emotion: "I see you're wearing rings."

 

THE END


End file.
